and  i 


A 
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BEAUTY— AND  MARY  BLAIR 


UNIV.  OF  OAI.1F.  ?,m*AWY> 


BEAUTY 

AND 

MARY  BLAIR 
A  Novel 

BY 
ETHEL  M.  KELLEY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

rerftf  <EambritJ0e 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1931,  BY  ETHEL  M.  KELLET 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


BEAUTY— AND  MARY  BLAIR 


BEAUTY- 
AMD   MARY  BLAIR 

•     • 

• 

CHAPTER  I 

MOTHER  didn't  speak.  Of  course,  Father 
did  n't  really  put  anything  up  to  her,  but  the 
general  idea  was  there  just  the  same.  What 
he  wanted  to  know  was,  whether  a  family  like 
ours,  consisting  of  one  young  married  femin- 
ist, one  eligible  though  unsusceptible  young 
unfeminist,  one  incorrigible  kid  brother,  and 
a  large,  sentimental  colored  lady,  could  be 
trusted  to  look  after  itself  while  the  natural 
guardians  of  it  took  a  protracted  business  trip 
into  Canada.  There  was  only  one  answer,  of 
course,  but  Mother  did  n't  make  it.  Among 
other  things  she  did  n't  want  to  spend  the 
money. 

"If  you  were  looking  for  a  nice  athletic 
young  daughter  now,"  I  said,  "I  know  of  one 
that  would  accompany  your  wanderings  de- 
lightedly." 


4          BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I'm  not,"  Father  said.  "Not  that  I 
would  n't  like  to  have  you,  Baby,  but  your 
mother  can  drive,  and  she  knows  what  to  do 
for  me  if  I  get  the  collywobbles  and  — " 

Bobby  winked  at  Delia,  who  was  moving 
majestically  around  the  table  serving  pie. 

"  Delia  ate  some  bread,  Delia  ate  some  jelly, 
Delia  went  to  bed  — "  Bobby  says  every- 
thing that  comes  into  his  head  without  any 
reference  to  time  and  place,  or  whoever  else 
happens  to  be  speaking. 

"I  can  drive  almost  as  well  as  Mother,  and 
I  could  give  you  castor  oil,  if  I  can  give  it  to 
Rex." 

Father  smiled. 

"You  poured  it  on  the  puppy's  head,  I 
understand,  and  he  licked  it  off  to  get  rid  of  it. 
Peculiar  as  it  may  seem  I  'd  rather  have  your 
mother." 

But  Mother  hedged. 

"I'd  like  to  go,"  she  said.  "You  know  I 
would,  Robert." 

"We  could  get  a  couple  of  weeks  of  camp," 
Father  suggested,  "and  it  would  set  you  up. 
—  Oh !  I  knew  you  would  n't  think  of  it  se- 
riously." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR         5 

"No,"  Mother  said,  "I  can't  leave."  And 
that  ended  it. 

The  Angel  in  the  house  tried  to  get  us  started 
on  some  general  conversation,  with  the  coffee. 
She 's  a  prohibitionist,  and  a  communist,  — 
sometimes.  At  other  times,  I  believe,  she's 
a  centrist  or  a  left-winger !  —  and  she  won't 
live  in  the  same  house  with  her  perfectly  good 
husband,  as  it  is  n't  done  in  those  circles. 

"It's  only  a  question  of  a  few  weeks  when 
every  State  in  the  Union  ratifies,"  she  said. 

"It's  news  to  me  that  they  haven't," 
Father  was  momentarily  interested. 

"I  was  talking  of  suffrage,"  the  Angel  — 
her  real  name  is  Stella  —  condescended. 

Mother  turned  a  rather  intent  look  on 
Stella.  The  women  of  our  family  are  a  great 
puzzle  to  each  other.  Stella,  with  her  braids 
bound  round  that  burning  high-brow  of  hers, 
and  her  unquenchable  craving  for  intellectual 
breakfast  food,  is  a  perpetual  thorn  in  Mother's 
flesh,  dearly  as  she  loves  to  have  one  there. 
Father's,  too,  though  Father  is  n't  quite  so 
much  given  to  kissing  the  bee  that  stings  him, 
as  it  were.  Father  and  Mother  are  only  going 
on  forty,  anyway. 


6         BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  suppose  if  you  had  a  family,  you  would 
leave  it  to  look  after  itself  whenever  it  was 
convenient,"  Mother  said  musingly. 

Stella  is  going  to  have  a  family,  but  Mother's 
social  error  did  n't  in  the  least  ruffle  her. 
She 's  so  high-minded  she  does  n't  care 
whether  she  has  a  family  or  not.  I  should  have 
very  decided  ideas  for  or  against.  I  under- 
stand that  Mother  did  —  against. 

"You  know  I  believe  in  the  rights  of  the 
individual,"  Stella  said  gently.  Well,  so  do  I, 
if  he  can  get  them. 

Father  looked  so  worried  to  me,  as  if  some- 
thing a  good  deal  more  important  than 
Mother's  going  or  not  going  to  Canada  hung 
in  the  balance,  that  I  tackled  him  about  it. 

"Daddy,"  I  said,  "do  you  want  me  to  make 
Mother  go  with  you  or  anything?  Do  you  feel 
awfully  seedy?  You  know  she  does  n't  want 
to  spend  the  money." 

"I  know  it,"  Father  said.  Then  he  spoke 
between  his  teeth:  "I  want  to  spend  the 
money,"  he  said;  "what  have  I  made  it  for?" 

"  You  could  n't,  seriously,  I  mean,  spend  it 
on  me,  Daddy?  I'd  love  to  go." 

"Too  much  of  a  row.  Besides,  I  want  your 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR         7 

mother."  I  knew  from  his  tone  that  he  did 
want  her  —  heaps,  more  than  heaps. 

"Daddy,"  I  said,  "do  your  children  bore 
you?" 

"Sometimes.  Why?  Not  you,  Baby,  ex- 
cepting as  such." 

"Oh!  I  know  that,"  I  said;  "well,  they  bore 
me,  too,  rather.  Mother  does  n't  bore  you?" 

"Never." 

"Don't  you  think  that  the  fact  that  she  is 
so  terribly  good-looking  has  something  to  do 
with  that?" 

"Probably,"  Father  said;  "and  let  me  give 
you  a  word  of  advice,  Mary.  If  you  really 
want  to  keep  a  man  —  keep  him  going,  you 
understand,  and  true  to  you  —  utilize  him; 
use  him,  all  the  best  there  is  in  him,  and  even  a 
little  of  the  worst  if  it  comes  to  that.  Use  his 
time,  use  his  money.  Make  the  most  of  him. 
You  can  keep  any  man,  you  know,  if  you  keep 
him  busy  enough  —  if  you  make  the  most  of 
him." 

"Father,"  I  said,  "let  me  go  to  Canada  with 
you.  I'd  be  better  than  nothing." 

And  I  think  I  would  have  been. 

I  am  one  of  those  people  to  whom  life  is  a 


8         BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

very  great  puzzle.  So  many  people  seem  to  get 
used  to  living,  but  I  don't.  I  can't  seem  to  get 
up  any  really  satisfying  philosophy,  or  find  any- 
body or  anything  to  help  me  about  it.  I  want 
everything,  little  and  big,  fixed  up  in  my  mind 
before  I  can  proceed. 

Even  as  a  very  small  child  I  always  wanted 
my  plans  made  in  advance.  Once  when 
Mother  had  a  bad  sick  headache,  I  sat  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed,  and  begged  her  to  tell  me  if 
she  thought  she  was  going  to  die,  so  if  she  was 
I  could  plan  to  go  and  live  with  my  Aunt 
Margaret.  I  was  an  odious  infant,  but  all  the 
same,  I  really  wanted  to  know,  and  that's  the 
way  I  am  to  this  day !  I  want  to  know  what 
the  probabilities  are,  in  order  to  act  accord- 
ingly. I  want  to  know  about  human  beings, 
and  how  they  got  into  the  fix  they  are  in,  and 
what  the  possibilities  are  of  their  getting  out 
of  it.  I  want-to  know  what  life  means,  but 
nobody  wants  to  talk  about  it. 

I  pursue  knowledge  in  various  ways.  I  read 
a  good  many  books,  more  since  I  left  school 
than  before.  I  've  waded  through  most  of  our 
green  cloth  edition  of  the  Popular  Science 
Library.  It  is  n't  very  modern  to  read  Dar- 


BEAUTY  — AND  MAKY  BLAIR         9 

win  and  Huxley  and  John  Stuart  Mill,  but  I 
don't  know  how  to  pick  and  choose  better 
things  —  that  is,  better  sound  things.  I  am 
handicapped  by  having  a  sister  who  knows 
everything.  She  lightly  acquired  a  classical 
education,  became  a  conspicuous  banner- 
bearing  feminist,  and  married  a  notorious 
radical  editor,  all  before  she  was  twenty.  The 
Angel 's  a  wonder.  I  always  expect  Mother  to 
peel  off  some  little  anecdote  about  her  hav- 
ing prepared  her  own  baby  food  according  to 
formula,  at  the  age  of  thirteen  months.  It's 
awfully  hard  to  imagine  her  ever  having  let 
Mother  do  it.  But  Sister  is  n't  much  help  to 
me  because  she's  an  idea  cannibal.  If  she 
can't  get  her  ration  of  raw  human  theory  to 
gorge  on  every  day,  she  is  n't  quite  the  same 
girl.  If  you  won't  be  psycho  analyzed,  or  read 
books  about  Russia,  or  try  to  get  up  some 
little  private  system  of  solving  labor  questions, 
why,  Sister's  interest  in  you  ceases.  I  hope 
her  unlucky  infant  will  be  born  lisping  the 
Einstein  theory  of  Relativity.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  but  that  infant  will  have  to  be  in- 
formed on  it  if  it  expects  either  one  of  its 
parents  to  take  an  intelligent  interest  in  it.  I 


10        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

can't  live  on  Sister's  diet.  I'd  get  mental 
hookworm. 

Mother's  literary  tastes  are  again  different. 
Mother 's  inclined  to  Spiritualism,  and  things 
occult.  She  reads  a  lot  of  faintly  Pollyannaish 
novels  with  a  Western  setting  if  possible,  and 
she  does  n't  care  at  all  about  books  that  show 
you  how  the  hero  and  the  heroine  connect  up 
with  life.  H.  G.  Wells  and  John  Galsworthy 
bore  her  stiff,  for  instance,  and  she  used  to  cry 
when  her  mother  made  her  read  George  Eliot. 
And  I'd  cry  if  she  made  me  read  all  those 
books  about  the  Romances  of  the  Insect 
World,  and  What  the  Flowers  Know,  that 
she's  so  fond  of.  The  things  I  want  to  know 
nobody  but  Carlyle  and  Stevenson  and 
Browning  have  had  much  to  say  about,  and 
they're  dead,  and  much  less  companionable 
for  that  reason.  Sister 's  cultured,  and  Mother 
is  n't,  I  suppose  that 's  the  gist  of  it,  and  I  'm 
stuck  in  between  them  somewhere,  drowning 
between  the  high-brows  and  the  deep-blue  sea 
of  ignorance. 

Father  is  safely  out  of  it  all,  because  he 
does  n't  read  anything  but  the  newspapers. 
He's  good  looking  enough  not  to  need  to  be 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        11 

cultured  in  the  least.  It's  too  bad  that  Sister 
tried  to  look  so  much  like  him,  and  did  n't 
succeed.  She's  got  the  big  blue  eyes,  and  the 
straight-cut  profile,  all  the  makings,  but  she 
has  n't  got  the  look  itself.  Father  is  a  charmer. 
I  am  dark  like  Mother,  but  not  so  pretty, 
though  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  I  look  more 
like  myself  than  any  one.  My  color  is  good 
anyhow.  Bobby  looks  like  me. 

If  I  could  think  what  it  was  I  wanted  of  life 
I  would  be  a  whole  lot  better  off.  I  have  all 
the  opportunities  there  are,  all  the  advantages 
of  a  life  in  New  York  City  in  a  two-hundred- 
dollar  apartment  that  we  paid  a  hundred  for 
five  years  ago  —  all  the  culture  there  is;  but  it 
is  n't  culture  I  'm  after,  some  way.  I  want  to 
get  the  hang  of  things,  and  I  don't  know  how 
I  'm  going  to  do  it  at  present. 

I'm  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  is  very 
much  interested  in  people,  well,  as  people, 
though  we  all  have  a  weird  lot  of  friends.  The 
Angel  fills  the  place  with  ladies  in  well-cut 
tweeds,  who  are  economically  independent  of 
the  race,  and  Byronic  boys  with  records  as 
draft-dodgers.  Friend  husband  is  the  best 
friend  she's  got,  but  of  course  she  won't  take 


12        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

his  name  or  anything.  She 's  still  Miss  Blair  to 
the  born  and  unborn.  Evangeline  Tucker  is 
her  closest  woman  friend,  I  should  say.  They 
get  together  on  the  Jugo-Slavs,  and  exchange 
confidences  on  personal  subjects  like  the  East- 
ern question,  and  how  to  make  a  confirmed 
aesthete  of  the  poor  working-girl.  When  I 
sit  in  at  one  of  these  confabs  I  always  feel 
like  taking  up  wrestling  for  a  life  work.  A 
wrestler  uses  the  bony  structure  of  his  skull 
as  a  weapon.  He  butts  the  other  fellow  in  the 
stomach  with  it. 

Mother's  friends  consist  of  fat  women  who 
look  eighteen  years  older  than  she  does,  and 
have  n't  half  such  good-looking  families  — 
and  Ellery  Howe.  I  don't  know  where  Mother 
picked  him  up,  but  she's  had  him  for  years. 
He's  a  music  hound  and  a  picture  sleuth. 
Mother  does  n't  care  much  for  either  music  or 
pictures,  but  she's  used  to  Ellery,  and  so  are 
all  the  rest  of  us.  At  one  time  I  thought  that 
Stella  might  marry  him  and  get  him  out  of  the 
way.  He  seemed  to  melt  into  some  of  the  crev- 
ices of  her  granite  nature,  but  I  don't  think 
Mother  liked  it  very  much.  It  seemed  rather 
a  waste,  too;  like  spattering  an  egg  against  a 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        13 

stone  wall.  The  wall  does  not  absorb  it,  and 
you  lose  the  ingredient  of  a  perfectly  good 
omelet.  An  ingredient  is  about  what  Ellery  is. 

Father  and  I  are  more  alike  about  friends. 
We  don't  have  them  so  much  to  exchange  sen- 
timents with  as  we  do  for  general  purposes  of 
amusement.  We  both  like  fools,  rather;  that 
is,  people  that  are  silly  and  healthy  and  good- 
looking,  and  know  their  way  about.  That's 
why  I  like  the  Webster  girls  and  Tommy 
Nevers,  and  that 's  why  Father  is  always  having 
lunch  with  ladies  with  earrings  and  green  tur- 
bans, and  men  like  Jimmie  Greer.  I  like  Jim- 
mie,  but  I  defy  any  other  member  of  our  re- 
fined family  circle  to  find  a  good  word  to  say 
for  him,  except  that  he 's  the  friend  of  Father's 
bosom. 

It  was  Jimmie  that  Father  thought  he  could 
get  to  go  with  him  on  the  Canadian  trip. 
Mother  was  dead  against  it  because  he  drinks 
so  much,  and  when  it  turned  out  that  Jimmie 
could  n't  go  anyway  she  was  as  pleased  as  if 
somebody  had  handed  her  a  present. 

"I  don't  like  Jimmie  Greer,"  she  said;  "he's 
coarse-fibred.  Your  father  would  n't  get  the 
benefit  of  his  trip  if  he  were  with  him." 


14        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  don't  see  how  he's  going  to  get  the 
benefit  of  his  trip  anyway,"  I  argued;  "he 
hates  to  go  alone  so,  and  he's  starting  off  so 
unsatisfied." 

"It's  too  bad  he  has  to  go  at  all,"  Mother 
said. 

"Men  are  very  childish  things,  Mother. 
You  ought  to  know." 

"It's  too  bad,"  Mother  repeated. 

"Too  bad  they're  childish  things?" 

"Too  bad  he's  got  to  go." 

"But  they  are,"  I  said.  —  And  they  are. 
Oh!  dear  me. 

It  seems  to  me  that  if  Mother  wanted  to 
know  anything  about  Father,  she'd  just  have 
to  get  right  down  to  brass  tacks  and  study 
Bobby. 

The  night  that  Father  went  away  I  felt 
rather  childish  myself.  The  dinner  was  per- 
fectly punk  for  one  thing.  We  had  veal  which 
Father  hated,  and  macaroni,  which  he  hates 
worse,  and  corn  fritters,  which  he  never  eats, 
and  rice  pudding,  which  I  don't  think  any  man 
ever  eats.  Delia  is  a  pretty  good  cook,  but 
Mother  ordered  this  dinner,  and  so  she  pro- 
duced it.  Father  ate  a  little,  and  then  went  off 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        15 

into  the  living-room  and  sulked.  I  put  my 
arms  around  him,  but  that  only  seemed  to  add 
insult  to  injury.  Mother  tranquilly  knitted, 
and  the  Angel  spoke  lovingly  of  the  Adriatic, 
and  Esthonia,  whatever  that  is. 

Then  Ellery  Howe  was  announced,  and 
Father  quit  cold.  I  cornered  him  in  the  hall 
with  his  hat  on. 

"Whither  away,  Daddy?"  I  said. 

"I'm  going  out  to  get  something  to  eat." 

"Take  me." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

But  he  would  have  if  Tommy  Nevers  had  n't 
put  in  his  appearance  at  that  instant. 

"You'll  have  to  go  away,  Tommy,"  I  said, 
"because  I'm  going  out  with  Father." 

"She  isn't,  though,"  Father  said.  "Take  her 
off  my  hands,  Tommy." 

"It's  Father's  last  night,"  I  said. 

Father's  reply  to  this  was  merely  to  go  out 
and  shut  the  door. 

"Let's  go  into  the  dug-out,"  Tommy  said, 
meaning  the  lounging-hole  I've  made  out  of 
my  dressing-room. 

"No,  I  want  to  go  to  walk,"  I  said;  "and  if 
you  know  anything  that  will  take  the  taste  of 


16        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

rice  pudding  out  of  my  mouth  I  would  be  very 
gratified  to  have  some  of  it." 

"We  used  to  drink  claret  lemonade," 
Tommy  said  regretfully. 

"They  used  to  raise  live-stock  right  on 
Broadway,"  I  said. 

We  walked  along  the  Drive  for  a  while,  and 
Tommy  told  me  what  he  thought  about  wo- 
men. He  certainly  thinks  a  lot  about  them. 
He  likes  a  girl  that  knows  where  she  gets  off, 
and  that  makes  a  fellow  comfortable,  and 
that  keeps  herself  right  up  to  the  mark.  He  'd 
prefer  to  have  her  have  a  permanent  wave  if 
she  gets  it  done  right,  and  to  have  her  be  a 
good  sport  without  ever  getting  out  beyond  a 
certain  point  where  the  ice  is  too  thin.  I  know 
it  all  by  heart. 

"Well,  Tommy,"  I  said  briskly,  "I  think  I 
answer  all  those  qualifications,  except  the 
permanent  wave." 

"Oh!  you  do,"  Tommy  assured  me  ear- 
nestly. 

"I  strive  to  please,"  I  said.  He  has  n't  any 
sense  of  humor.  "If  you  were  a  man,"  I 
added  hastily,  "and  you  got  the  kind  of  a  wife 
that  was  n't  all  those  things,  and  it  kept  drag- 


BEAUTY —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        17 

ging  on  and  on  and  everything  going  wrong,  or 
wrongish  all  the  time,  what  do  you  think  that 
you'd  finally  come  to  do  about  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Tommy  said  uncertainly; 
"make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  I  suppose." 

"But  just  practically,  what  would  you  do?" 
I  said.  "Supposing  your  wife  would  never  go 
with  you  anywhere  or  let  you  spend  any 
money  on  her  or  anything?  Supposing  she  just 
got  to  be  kind  of  lackadaisical  about  you,  and 
sat  around  refusing  to  be  a  sport  for  no  par- 
ticular reason?" 

"I'd  find  somebody  that  would  be  a  sport, 
then." 

"But  that  would  be  rather  hard  on  your 
family,  would  n't  it?" 

"  I  would  n't  have  a  family  under  those 
circumstances,"  Tommy  argued. 

"But  you  can't  always  pick  and  choose 
whether  you  will  have  a  family  or  not!  Sup- 
posing you  had  one  first,  and  then  this  lack- 
adaisical condition  developed  afterward,  what 
would  you  do?" 

"Well,  this  is  a  man's  world,"  Tommy  said, 
rather  threateningly. 

We  wandered  over  to  the  Hotel  La  France  a 


18        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

little  later,  and  found  our  same  little  table 
over  against  the  side  wall.  I  adore  having  the 
same  table,  and  Tommy  is  pretty  adequate 
about  getting  it  for  me.  Tommy  is  so  much 
better  than  nothing  that  I  often  wonder  what 
I  should  ever  do  without  him.  I  don't  like 
suitors,  but  then  I  don't  very  much  like  these 
good  old  chums  that  let  you  pay  for  your  own 
refreshments.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  a 
boy  thinks  more  of  you  if  you  eat  at  his  ex- 
pense than  at  your  own,  but  such  indeed  is  the 
case.  The  Angel  is  economically  independent 
on  money  that  Grandfather  earned  for  Grand- 
mother, when  she  was  parasitically  bringing 
eight  children  into  the  world.  I  have  no  such 
advantages,  so  I  can't  marry  anybody  but  a 
conservative. 

After  we  had  been  sitting  there  for  a  while 
drinking  ginger  ale,  and  waiting  for  the  Peach 
Melbas  we  had  ordered,  in  came  Father  with 
Jimmie  Greer,  and  one  of  those  ladies  in  ear- 
rings that  Jimmie  imports  every  little  while.  I 
had  a  moment  of  real  pang,  because  it  would 
have  been  so  much  more  suitable  if  I  had  been 
there  with  Daddy  and  all  the  others  were 
non  est. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        19 

"There's  Mary,"  Jimmie  Greer  said,  in- 
dicating me. 

Father  consigned  me  to  the  nether  regions 
without  an  upward  glance,  and  the  lady 
stretched  in  my  direction.  She  was  wearing  an 
imitation  moleskin  coat  with  a  squirrel  collar  — 
of  all  things — and  an  iridescent  hat  shaped  like 
a  salad  bowl,  with  a  hearth-brush  effect  over 
the  right  ear,  the  curved  kind  of  hearth-brush 
that  gets  into  all  the  corners  and  crevices. 

"There's  your  father,"  said  Tommy. 

"You've  seen  him  before  this  evening." 

"He  wants  us  to  go  over  to  his  table." 

"He  does  n't;  Jimmie  Greer  does." 

"Who's  the  vamp?" 

"She's  Jimmie's  vamp." 

Father  came  over  to  speak  to  me. 

"I  ran  into  Jimmie  and  Mrs.  Van  der 
Water,  a  friend  of  his.  I  '11  just  have  a  sand- 
wich and  run  home.  Don't  stay  out  too  late 
yourself,  Kitten." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Van  der  Water?" 

"A  Canadian  woman,  a  friend  of  Jimmie's. 
I  never  met  her  before." 

When  I  got  home  Mother  was  sitting  up 
and  waiting  for  Father.  Stella  was  receiving 


20       BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

one  of  her  semi-weekly  visits  from  her  hus- 
band, but  they  went  off  into  her  own  room  the 
moment  they  saw  me  approaching.  Cosgrove 
had  had  his  hair  cut,  which  gave  him  a  rather 
bereft  appearance.  A  man  who  has  the  habit  of 
wearing  his  hair  long  always  looks  so  distrait 
without  it,  some  way. 

What  do  you  say  to  your  mother  when 
you've  just  seen  your  father  basking  in  the 
smiles  of  a  hand-painted  siren,  breaking  the 
prohibition  laws  with  the  aid  of  a  concealed 
flask  and  three  bottles  of  White  Rock?  The 
ash  of  Ellery  Howe's  Panatela  was  still  smoking 
in  the  jade  ash-tray  he  brought  her.  Every- 
body has  a  right  to  enjoy  themselves  in  their 
own  way  —  everybody  who  is  decent,  that  is. 
I  hate  to  stir  up  anything. 

"There's  beer  on  the  ice,  dear,"  Mother 
said  to  Father,  when  at  last  he  did  come  in. 

"I've  had  a  drink,"  Father  said,  with  a  sus- 
picious look  at  me. 

"Where?"  Mother  asked. 

"At  the  La  France.  Greer  had  it  in  his 
pocket." 

"He'll  get  arrested  some  of  these  days," 
Mother  said. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        21 

"It's  my  last  night,  Helen,"  Father  said 
slowly. 

"I  know  it.  I  must  get  to  bed  so  as  to  be  up 
to  get  you  off  in  the  morning." 

"I  wish  you  were  coming." 

"I  wish  I  were,  Robert,  but  it's  so  much 
money  for  such  a  short  time." 

"I  wish  you'd  come  with  me,  and  spend  it." 

Then  they  kissed,  and  Father  went  off  to 
his  room  and  Mother  to  hers.  The  voice  of 
Stella  and  her  shorn  radical  could  be  heard 
ever  and  anon  echoing  through  the  apart- 
ment. There  was  a  gorgeous  and  glorious 
moon  over  the  Drive.  I  could  see  it  from  my 
window,  and  I  stood  there  and  cried.  There 
did  n't  seem  to  be  anything  about  life  —  our 
my  life  —  to  get  your  teeth  in. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FEW  days  after  Father's  departure  Ellery 
Howe  took  me  to  a  picture  show.  Mother  had 
a  headache,  and  he  decided  that  I  was  better 
than  going  alone.  Stella  would  n't  go  for  some 
reason  best  known  to  Stella.  I  think  the  rea- 
son that  Mother  had  a  headache  was  that 
Father  telegraphed  her  that  morning,  asking 
her  if  she  wanted  him  to  get  her  a  full-length 
seal  coat  worth  twelve  hundred  dollars  for  half- 
price.  Of  course  Mother  wired  in  a  panic  that 
she  would  n't  wear  it  under  any  circumstances, 
but  the  incident  upset  her.  Poor  Mother,  she 
grew  up  poor,  and  it  about  kills  her  to  spread 
out.  She  just  can't  seem  to  believe  that  our 
income  will  bear  our  weight.  She's  got  what 
the  Angel  calls  a  complex  about  it. 

I  put  on  my  crimson  feather  turban  which  I 
am  crazy  about  because  it's  the  first  mature- 
looking  hat  I've  ever  had.  A  woman  of  forty 
could  wear  it,  and  it's  very  smart,  too.  It 
goes  very  well  with  my  suit,  which  is  beaver 
color  and  trimmed  with  beaver.  Ellery  cast  a 
very  slight  look  of  satisfaction  on  me  as  we 


BEAUTY— AND  MARY  BLAIR        23 

started  on  our  way.  I  ought  to  know  more 
about  art,  and  so  I  am  always  glad  of  any 
chance  to  look  at  pictures  with  anybody  who 
knows  anything  about  them.  Ellery  talks  too 
much  gibberish  to  be  of  much  use,  but  some- 
times I  get  a  gleam. 

"What  are  we  going  to  see?",  I  asked  en- 
couragingly, as  the  bus  conductor  changed 
Ellery's  dollar  bill  into  dimes  and  nickels.  I 
always  like  to  put  the  fares  into  the  automatic 
collector,  myself.  Once  I  put  in  eight  before 
the  conductor  could  stop  me,  but  I  would  n't 
tell  Ellery  anything  like  that  for  worlds. 

"We  are  going  to  see"  —  he  fed  in  the  two 
dimes  —  "mostly  studies  in  abstract  form. 
There  are  to  be  a  few  portraits  in  the  new 
manner,  but  the  color  studies  are  the  inter- 
esting things." 

"They  are  not  Cubistic,  are  they?" 

"Well,  not  exactly.  This  particular  exhibi- 
tion is  by  a  group  who  are  just  about  halfway 
between  the  Cubists  and  the  Vorticists." 

"The  which?"  I  said.  I  was  watching  the 
automatic  collector  nibbling  dimes.  I  always 
feel  as  if  somebody  who  was  clumsy  would  get 
a  real  nip  if  he  did  n't  watch  out. 


24        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"The  Vorticists.  You  know  what  a  vortex 
is." 

I  could  n't  think  what  it  was  at  the  mo- 
ment. 

"Is  that  what  they  do,  paint  vortexes?"  I 
asked,  to  gain  time. 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly.  They  see  motion  in 
terms  of  static  form,  though  sometimes  they 
convey  the  actual  vibration  by  some  effect 
with  color.  Don't  you  remember  seeing  the 
Primitives  in  the  art  museum  with  halos 
about  their  heads,  crudely  representing  scin- 
tillation?" 

"The  entire  class  went  to  see  the  Italian 
Primitives  once.  I  liked  them  because  they 
looked  like  things  I  could  have  done  myself." 

"Exactly.  That's  the  whole  modern  theory, 
reversion  to  the  simplest  art  expression  we  are 
capable  of." 

"  Why  don't  they  draw  pictures  of  cats  and 
dogs  and  houses?" 

"They  are  trying  to  get  away  from  the  pres- 
entation of  any  literal  image,  any  concrete 
idea." 

"What  are  they  trying  to  do?"  I  said.  It 
was  hard  to  keep  my  mind  on  what  he  was 


BEAUTY— AND  MARY  BLAIR        25 

saying  because,  speaking  of  vortexes,  that  was 
what  Fifth  Avenue  was  as  we  skimmed  along 
it,  a  whirling,  swirling  mass  of  color  and  per- 
sonality and  life. 

"They  are  trying  to  appeal  to  the  imagina- 
tion by  achieving  a  balance  of  abstract  color 
and  form." 

"But  why?"  I  said. 

When  we  got  inside  the  gallery  the  interest- 
ing thing  was  Ellery,  though  I  admit  the  pic- 
tures themselves  were  fearful  and  wonderful. 
Seriously,  that 's  what  they  were  —  fearful 
and  wonderful.  After  you  studied  them  for  a 
while  you  got  afraid. 

"They  all  mean  something,"  Ellery  said. 

"I  can't  see  what  this  means."  It  was  a 
canvas  covered  with  long  curved  things  like 
ladies'  stockings,  some  with  feet  in  them  and 
some  just  twisted  once,  all  in  the  most  gor- 
geous and  brilliant  colors. 

"It's  just  a  design." 

"But  what 'sit  for?" 

"Just  a  study  in  color  and  form." 

"You  really  like  it?"  I  said. 

"Better  than  anything  else  here." 

"What  do  you  get  out  of  it?" 


26        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Beauty." 

"But  there  is  n't  any  there." 

"Look  again.  Take  a  good  five  minutes." 

I  did,  and  I  got  sort  of  hypnotized.  There 
was  a  personality  behind  that  picture  just  the 
same  as  there  is  behind  other  pictures.  I  sud- 
denly got  awfully  homesick  for  Whistler's 
picture  of  his  mother. 

"It's  better  than  I  thought,"  I  admitted; 
"it  might  mean  something  to  somebody,  but 
not  to  me." 

"If  any  man  is  strong  enough  you  feel  him 
through  his  medium,"  Ellery  said. 

I  looked  at  him  critically.  He  has  big  velvet- 
brown  eyes  and  a  sweet  smile,  and  he  wears 
putty-colored  clothes  with  solid-color  ties, 
mostly  in  brilliant  orange. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  Beauty?"  I  asked 
him  as  we  wended  our  way  up  the  Avenue. 
It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  he  must  mean 
something  by  the  way  he  goes  about  things. 
There's  milk  in  every  cocoanut,  they  say. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  very  much  about  it." 

"It's  —  the  thing  behind  every  art  im- 
pulse." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        27 

"But  I  have  n't  any,"  I  said. 

"Well,  neither  have  I,"  Ellery  acknowl- 
edged; "but  I  think  perhaps  Beauty  is  my 
religion  just  the  same." 

"I  read  a  poem  by  Masefield  the  other  day, 
you  know  the  one  on  growing  old.  'Be  with 
me,  Beauty,  for  the  fire  is  dying.'  Beauty 
seems  pretty  real  to  him,  does  n't  it?  I  think 
when  I  get  to  be  that  age  I  '11  be  more  likely  to 
write  a  poem  that  says,  'Be  with  me,  Amos  or 
Bessie,'  or  somebody." 

Ellery  did  n't  crack  a  smile. 

"There  are  lots  of  poems  about  it,"  I  mused. 
"Beauty  is  Truth,  Truth  Beauty,  —  that  is 
all  ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know/ 
Is  that  what  you  mean  by  having  it  for  a  reli- 
gion?" 

"Something  like  that." 

"Do  you  like  new  poetry  as  well  as  you  like 
new  art?" 

"I  don't  understand  it  so  well." 

"I  understand  it  better,"  I  said;  "when  it's 
idiotic  I  know  it's  idiotic.  I  don't  get  the  art 
so  straight." 

But  Ellery  had  gone  off  into  a  sort  of  coma. 

"Beauty,"  he  said,  "beauty.    'Helen,  thy 


28        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

beauty  is  to  me,  like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
that  dumpty  o'er  a  dumpty  sea!"  I  forget 
his  exact  words;  what  I  was  struck  with  was 
the  fact  that  my  mother's  name  is  Helen. 

We  walked  home  practically  in  silence, 
though  I  annoyed  him  somewhat  by  sing- 
songing a  poem  I  found  in  a  collection  of 
modern  verses  the  other  day: 

"We  have  a  one  room  house, 
you  have  a  two  room,  three  room,  four  room. 
We  have  a  one  room  house 
because  a  one  room  house  is  all  we  have. 
We  have  a  one  room  house 
because  we  do  not  want 
a  two  room,  three  room,  four  room. 
If  we  had  a  two  room,  three  room,  four  room, 
we  would  want  more  than  a  one  room  — " 

and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

Ellery  knows  a  lot,  and  has  got  very  high 
ideals  about  life.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  that 
whenever  I  drop  into  serious  human  con- 
versation with  him,  I  always  wish  that  I 
had  n't.  I  feel  that  same  way  about  the  Angel, 
except  that  with  her  I  never  even  try  it  on. 

Mother  was  sitting  up  in  a  pale-blue  hostess 
gown  when  we  got  back  to  the  house,  looking 
so  stricken  and  motherish  that  she  almost  dis- 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        29 

armed  my  suspicions,  but  not  enough  so  that 
I  got  out  of  the  way. 

"I  hope  your  headache  is  better,"  Ellery 
said;  "we  missed  you,  Mary  and  I.'* 

"Uncle  Ellery  missed  you,"  I  said.  I  had 
never  "uncled"  him  before,  and  he  looked  a 
little  surprised. 

"I  did  n't  feel  equal  to  it,"  Mother  said. 

"It's  been  some  time  since  you  complained 
of  a  headache."  Ellery  looked  at  her  anx- 
iously. 

"I  don't  always  complain  of  them." 

"I  know,"  Ellery  said. 

"I've  been  a  little  troubled  in  some  ways." 

4 Poor  Helen." 

"Well,  we  all  have  our  little  problems." 
Mother  smiled  bravely.  A  fat  problem  she  had, 
as  to  whether  or  not  to  decline  a  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  furs  —  besides  having  al- 
ready declined  them.  I  decided  then  and  there 
to  write  Father  to  get  me  a  cross-fox  set  if  he 
could. 

"Mother,"  I  said  suddenly/  "what  do  you 
think  about  all  this  new  art  stuff?  Do  you 
think  it's  going  to  get  anybody  anywhere?" 

Mother  smiled  at  Ellery. 


30        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"She's  a  terrible  child,"  she  said,  indicating 
me;  "she  always  asks  that  about  everything." 

"Well,  do  you?"  I  insisted. 

"It  depends  on  where  you  are  going,"  she 
said,  matronizing  me. 

"I  don't  know  where  I'm  going,"  I  said, 
" but  I 'm  on  my  way .  Are  you?" 

"I  said  she  was  a  terrible  child,"  Mother 
sighed.  She's  really  quite  cute  when  she 
kittens  with  Ellery. 

Finally  I  took  pity  on  them,  and  went  out 
into  the  kitchen  to  make  them  some  cinna- 
mon toast  and  tea,  it  being  Delia's  day  out. 
I  like  our  kitchen,  and  I  spend  all  the  time 
I  can  there  when  it  is  n't  encumbered  by 
Delia.  Mother  has  blue-and-white  checked 
gingham  sash  curtains,  and  blue-and-white 
linoleum  on  the  floor.  The  tubs  and  shelves 
are  all  done  in  white  oilcloth,  and  there  is  an 
enamel-topped  table,  very  convenient  to  sit 
on  and  swing  your  feet,  and  a  kitchen  cabinet 
that  makes  cooking  an  aesthetic  delight.  I  love 
order  and  immaculateness,  though  I  am  not 
one  of  those  who  can  reduce  things  to  that 
state  unaided.  Once  aided,  however,  I  can 
keep  them  going.  Cinnamon  toast  is  quite  an 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        31 

art.  You  don't  want  it  either  crumbly  or 
gooey.  Mother  loves  it.  Anybody  but  Mother 
would  be  fat  on  what  she  eats,  but  not  she  — 
not  her.  Age  cannot  wither  her  scrumptious 
figure. 

Ellery  came  out  into  the  kitchen  to  say  that 
Mother  would  take  lemon,  instead  of  the 
habitual  cream,  but  personally  he  would  stick 
to  the  English  manner. 

"The  English  have  milk,"  I  reminded  him. 

"Well,  I '11  have  milk." 

"  Cream  is  what  you  usually  have." 

"Oh!  is  it?   Well,  I'll  have  that,  then." 

Personally  I  can't  see  why  you  'd  call  having 
milk  "the  English  manner"  even  if  you  knew 
the  difference,  which  you  so  often  don't. 

"I'm  really  a  little  worried  about  your 
mother,"  Ellery  said.  "She  seems  so  distrait." 

"She  is,"  I  said. 

"I  hate  to  have  her  begin  those  headaches 
again." 

"Well,  maybe  she  is  n't  beginning." 

"She  looks  well." 

"She  is.  She  had  a  chance  to  go  to  Canada 
with  Father,  but  she  would  n't.  Father  thought 
that  would  set  her  up." 


32        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Ellery  looked  conscientious. 

"Maybe  it  would  have  been  wiser  for  her,*' 
he  said. 

"She  could  n't  leave  us.  Stella  might  have 
got  the  colic  or  something."  The  brown  sugar 
and  cinnamon  were  acting  up.  I  stirred  them 
frantically. 

"Mary,"  Ellery  said  solemnly,  "your  mo- 
ther is  a  very  rare  human  being." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  I  said,  waving  the 
saucepan  in  midair  so  the  stuff  would  n't 
granulate. 

"She's  very  highly  organized,  and  she 
suffers  from  a  million  petty  annoyances  that  a 
less  sensitive  creature  would  n't  even  know 
the  existence  of." 

"Well,  maybe,"  I  said.  The  kettle  boiled 
over  opportunely.  Ellery  helpfully  began 
spreading  toast  for  me. 

"She's  succeeded  in  making  a  very  beauti- 
ful life  for  herself.  I  realize  that,  but  in  a 
sense  it  is  a  life  that  is  very  hard  for  her. 
She 's  miscast,  one  might  almost  say.  She  was 
made  for  a  larger  scope  of  existence." 

"What  do  you  mean  —  larger  scope?" 

"A  freer,  more  facile  existence.    One  can 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR       33 

imagine  her  the  mistress  of  a  salon,  or  in  a 
European  country  the  presiding  genius  of  a 
group  of  diplomats.  She  has  great  social  gifts, 
you  know." 

"You  think  she  would  n't  have  headaches  if 
she  had  a  salon?"  I  said. 

"She  would  be  better  poised  physically  if 
she  were  in  perfect  accord  mentally  and 
spiritually." 

"Would  n't  we  all?"  I  asked  flippantly;  but 
there  was  something  in  Ellery's  face  that  made 
me  add  quickly,  the  way  I  do  to  Bobby  when 
he  has  n't  been  taken  seriously  enough,  "I'm 
going  to  think  it  all  over." 

We  bore  the  tea-tray  together  back  to  the 
living-room.  Mother  was  poised  in  the  big 
carved  Spanish  chair,  with  her  head  drooping 
a  little,  and  one  little  silver  shoe  stuck  out 
from  beneath  her  blue  dress.  She  might  have 
been  anything  in  the  world  —  excepting  my 
mother. 

Ellery  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  of  admiration. 

"Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me — "  I  said  to 
myself. 

It's  just  all  I  can  do  to  think  of  the  possi- 
bility of  my  mother  or  father  ever  having 


34        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

married  any  one  else.  It's  positively  uncanny 
to  work  back  to  a  period  where  your  respected 
parents  were  thinking  of  breaking  their  en- 
gagement to  one  another.  It  leaves  you  so  out 
in  the  cold.  It  makes  my  hair  slowly  rise  any 
day  of  the  week  to  think  of  the  Mayor  of 
Toledo,  for  instance,  who  once  inquired  of 
Mother  if  she  would  be  his  wife.  But  this 
Ellery  business  is  something  else  again.  I 
wish  I  knew  what  to  think.  Mother  is  n't 
Guinevere  or  anything.  But  does  she  know 
where  she's  going?  Does  Ellery  —  sweet  soul 
—  think  he  can  go  on  forever  watching  over 
Mother's  head,  and  deploring  the  absence  of 
a  gilded  salon  for  her  —  Mother  who  won't 
take  the  sealskin  offerings  that  the  gods  are 
hankering  to  provide  for  her? 

Maybe  some  other  kind  of  life  would  have 
brought  her  out  more.  I  suppose  she  is  a  rav- 
ing beauty.  I  for  one  would  like  to  see  her  al- 
ways in  velvets  with  chiffon  hangings  and 
silver  slippers;  but  if  all  we've  got  to  hold  out 
for  is  the  kind  of  life  for  which  we're  best 
fitted,  why,  I,  as  Stella  so  frequently  remarks, 
don't  see  the  logic  of  it. 


CHAPTER  in 

THE  Webster  girls  live  in  a  house,  a  real 
house  with  an  upstairs  and  a  downstairs,  and  a 
back  yard  with  a  police  dog  chained  in  it.  I 
know  the  girls  are  rather  silly,  but  I  adore 
going  there.  Their  chief  object  in  life  is  to  get 
out  of  doing  anything  that  is  expected  of  them. 
For  instance,  they  are  supposed  to  get  up  to 
breakfast,  but  they  have  all  kinds  of  devices 
to  cheat  their  family,  and  bribe  the  cook  into 
letting  them  stay  in  bed.  Sometimes  one  of 
them  pretends  she  is  sick,  and  the  other  — 
Mertis  usually  —  brings  enough  breakfast  for 
both  of  them  to  her  bedside.  Or  they  get  the 
waitress  to  fill  a  thermos  bottle  full  of  coffee, 
and  then  they  drink  it  with  zwieback  or  Lorna 
Doones  that  they  have  smuggled  in  from  the 
grocer's.  Of  course,  this  does  n't  appeal  to  me 
so  much,  because  Bobby  will  bring  in  my 
breakfast  any  time  I  ask  for  it,  and  he  fixes  it 
very  nicely,  too.  He  never  slops  the  coffee  or 
slides  the  things  around  on  the  tray. 

"Excuse   my   pajamas,    Sister,"   he   says. 


36        BEAUTY —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Bobby  is  awfully  cute  when  nobody  is  hound- 
ing him  into  being  a  perfect  gentleman. 

Marion  is  the  prettiest  Webster,  but  I  think 
that  Mertis  has  the  most  character,  if  you 
can  speak  of  character  in  connection  with 
either  of  them.  They  look  a  little  like  the 
Dolly  sisters,  if  you  have  ever  seen  them  in 
musical  comedy,  which  I  have  n't.  They  are 
not  twins,  but  they  dress  alike.  This  winter 
they  both  had  gray-squirrel  capes,  the  long 
kind  to  the  bottom  of  their  dresses,  with  deep 
yokes  to  their  waists,  and  they  wore  black 
hats  with  big  orange  pins  in  them.  All  their 
clothes  are  cute. 

Of  course,  they  have  n't  an  idea  between 
them.  All  they  care  about  is  making  lingerie, 
and  going  to  shows  and  dancing,  but  I  like 
them.  I  spend  whole  days  with  them.  Mrs. 
Webster  likes  to  have  me  because  she  thinks 
I  'm  a  restraining  influence.  I  'm  not.  I  like  to 
see  them  perform,  and  I'm  pretty  likely  to 
start  them  going  again  whenever  they  stop  for 
breath. 

It 's  curious  that  they  are  so  gay  and  giddy, 
with  that  kind,  [white-haired  father,  and  gen- 
tle, frilly  mother.  I  guess  their  parents  were 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        S7 

older  than  mine  are  now  when  they  were  born. 
They've  got  a  married  brother  that  looks 
positively  patriarchal  as  compared  with  my 
young  daddy. 

If  I  could  get  the  parents  of  my  friends  to- 
gether in  one  room  sometime  I  'd  have  the  fun- 
niest collection  anybody  ever  saw.  Tommy 
Nevers's  mother  is  the  president  of  the  Wo- 
man's Civic  Union,  and  she  always  wears  a 
uniform.  Cosgrove's  father  has  been  in  jail, 
and  I've  got  a  girl  friend  whose  mother  dyes 
her  hair  pink,  and  is  married  to  a  boy  of 
twenty-two.  She  is  n't  half  bad  either,  and 
Prunella  is  the  lambiest  lamb  I  almost  ever 
knew.  Good  old  Southern  family,  and  all 
that.  Stella  says  that  it's  the  children  that 
educate  their  parents.  Well,  it's  a  lucky 
thing  that  we  don't  have  to  have  them  all  at 
school  together.  Corporal  punishment  would 
n't  do  for  all  alike,  but  some  of  them  would 
need  it  badly. 

The  most  successful  affair  that  the  Websters 
gave  was  that  orchid  tea  in  January,  a  real 
th&  dansant  in  their  own  house.  The  whole 
place  was  banked  with  lavender  flowers, 
mostly  mums,  but  the  girls  themselves  wore 


38        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

orchids  and  pale  mauve  Georgette  frocks  — 
the  most  ravishing  things  I  've  ever  seen  in  my 
life.  They  had  their  hair  dressed  at  Richard- 
son's, brushed  back  from  their  forehead  and 
pulled  way  out  over  their  ears.  They  had  a 
string  quartette,  and  the  fattest  caterer  I  ever 
saw.  Every  one  took  him  for  a  guest.  I  wore 
peach  color  with  my  hair  banded  around  my 
head.  Even  Stella,  whose  general  idea  of  eve- 
ning dress  is  a  Batik  portiere,  sans  stockings, 
thought  I  looked  satisfactory,  and  said  so. 

I  love  the  smell  of  a  party,  flowers  and 
chicken  salad  and  ices  and  talcum  powder;  with 
a  kind  of  general  odor  of  dressmaking  estab- 
lishments brooding  over  everything.  When  I 
stood  in  the  front  hall  I  got  my  first  whiff  of  it, 
and  often  when  I  am  with  Carrington  Chase, 
whom  I  met  there  for  the  first  time,  the  general 
scent  of  that  party  comes  back  to  me,  just  as 
it  smelled  on  my  first  entrance  upon  it.  You 
don't  always  have  as  good  a  time  as  you  ex- 
pect at  parties,  but  I  did  at  that  one. 

Carrington  Chase  is  a  peculiar  person.  I  like 
him  better  than  almost  any  one  I  know,  but  a 
lot  of  people  can't  stand  him.  He  has  n't  the 
conventional  type  of  manners.  When  Mertis 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        39 

introduced  us,  for  instance,  he  just  looked  at 
me,  under  his  winglike  eyebrows. 

"This  is  Mary,"  Mertis  said;  "I've  told 
you  all  about  her.  Miss  Blair,  Mr.  Chase." 

"So  it  is,"  Carrington  Chase  said,  "Mary." 

"I've  heard  a  good  deal  about  you,  too,"  I 
said. 

"I  did  n't  know  your  eyes  were  going  to  be 
gray,"  he  said. 

"They  are  n't  going  to  be;  they  are,"  I  re- 
torted. 

He  has  a  quizzical,  rather  benign  smile,  and 
hair  that  stands  straight  up  on  end.  He's 
quite  young,  and  looks  very  old  until  you  come 
to  examine  him  closely.  What  I  like  about 
him  is  the  downright  way  he  says  what  he 
thinks,  and  what  he  wants. 

"Come  and  sit  over  here  on  this  sofa,"  he 
said,  "and  tell  me  about  it." 

"About  what?" 

"About  Mary  Blair  and  what  she  thinks  of 
the  world." 

"There's  nothing  much  to  tell." 

"There's  everything  to  tell,"  he  said  ear- 
nestly. "I'll  wager  my  lucky  penny  that  I 
know  your  reaction  to  this  party,  and  all  par- 


40        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

ties  like  it."  I  never  heard  anybody  say 
"wager"  before.  "You  want  to  know  what 
the  whole  silly  show  is  about." 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  do.  Not  that  I  think 
this  is  a  silly  party." 

"Oh!  yes,  you  do." 

"I  don't,"  I  maintained. 

"But  it's  a  part  of  the  show  that  you  can't 
accept  unthinkingly." 

"Well,  no,  I  can't." 

"It's  all  in  those  big  gray  eyes  of  yours. 
They've  challenged  life,  I  suppose,  ever  since 
you  first  opened  them  on  it." 

"  I  'm  not  exactly  intellectual,"  I  said.  "  My 
sister  Stella,  Mrs.  Cosgrove  Worthington,  is 
the  prominent  member  of  our  family." 

"  Mrs.  Cosgrove  Worthington  —  Stella  Blair 
• — you  mean.  Is  she  your  sister?  My  Lord!" 

"Did  n't  Mertis  tell  you  that?" 

"No,  she  did  n't.  My  Lord!"  he  said  again. 

"  She 's  my  sister  just  the  same,"  I  said. 

"Amazing!" 

"I  don't  think  you  sound  very  flattering," 
I  said.  "Stella  is  rather  nice  when  you  come 
to  know  her." 

"Oh!  I  suppose  she  is.  But  you  are  nicer." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR       41 

"I'm  not  generally  supposed  to  be  very 
important,  and  she  is." 

"You're  delicious,"  he  said,  "and  she  is  n't. 
I'll  bet  you  never  read  a  book  on  Political 
Economy  in  your  life." 

"Well,  I  have  n't.  I  got  one  out  of  the  li- 
brary once,  but  Father  said  if  it  was  political  it 
was  n't  economy.  Sometimes  things  like  that 
stick  in  my  mind  and  spoil  a  subject  for  me." 

"I'll  wager  you  went  to  boarding-school." 

"I  did  with  Mertis  and  Marion." 

"You  play?" 

"Yes,  some.  Not  Beethoven.  Not  Scriabin." 

He  laughed.  When  he  laughs  he  throws  his 
head  up  suddenly,  and  all  his  gleaming  white 
teeth  show.  His  eye-teeth  are  rather  fangy, 
but  not  unpleasantly  so. 

"Are  you  an  artist?"  I  asked. 

"Not  I.  I'm  in  the  export  business." 

"You  don't  look  like  a  business  man." 

"I  have  the  dilettante  temperament."  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  any  one 
say  "dilettante." 

"You  look  like  an  artist,"  I  said. 

"You  look  like  a  rose.  Let's  dance,"  he 
said,  and  we  did. 


42        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

It  was  n't  that  he  danced  so  well  as  far  as 
the  mere  steps  were  concerned,  but  our  danc- 
ing together  was  just  as  if  one  person  was  mov- 
ing, instead  of  two,  not  only  moving  but  glid- 
ing, swaying,  and  standing  poised  like  one 
human  being. 

"That  was  beautiful,"  he  said,  as  we  found 
our  seats  again. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"I'm  going  to  break  into  this."  Marion 
pounced  upon  us,  with  a  desiccated  blond 
thing  in  tow.  "I'm  going  to  dance  with  Car- 
rington  myself,  and  Mr.  Miffen  is  crazy  to 
dance  with  you,  Maisie.  Mr.  Miffen,  Miss  Blair. 
Now,  you  know  each  other." 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Blair?"  Mr.  Miffen 
was  slightly  cross-eyed.  I  had  all  I  could  do  to 
refrain  from  starting  in  by  telling  him  that 
French  story  of  the  lame  man  and  the  cross- 
eyed lady:  "Comment  vous  portez-vous?" 
"Comme  vous  voyez."  —  But  fortunately  he 
expected  me  to  dance.  It  was  lucky  I  did  n't 
expect  him  to. 

When  he  said  good -night  to  me  Carrington 
asked  if  he  could  come  to  see  me.  He  also 
asked  if  I  would  go  out  with  him  and  dance 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        43 

at  different  places  sometimes.  That  was  n't 
so  easy  to  answer  because,  excepting  going  to 
the  Hotel  La  France,  which  is  near  home,  with 
Tommy  Nevers,  or  the  crowd,  my  public  ap- 
pearance with  interesting  young  men  has 
been  conscientiously  frowned  on.  Mother  had 
such  a  hard  time  with  Stella's  professional 
indiscretions,  and  they  began  so  early,  that 
I've  been  kept  more  or  less  done  up  in  ab- 
sorbent cotton.  Still  I  put  up  a  front,  and 
accepted  on  the  spot.  I  Ve  never  regretted  it. 
His  first  call  on  me  was  n't  the  most  suc- 
cessful thing  on  earth.  In  the  first  place,  he 
hates  cats,  and  Omar  Khayyam,  fresh  from 
the  coal,  where  she  always  goes  when  Bobby 
takes  her  down  to  visit  the  janitor,  made  a 
flying  leap  for  his  shoulders  when  he  first 
came  in.  After  Omar  —  Mrs.  Omar  she  ought 
to  be  —  Bobby  came  in  eating  something; 
and  Mother  did  n't  look  as  nice  as  usual,  and 
was  very  expansive  about  spiritualism.  I 
don't  think  many  people  like  to  have  seances 
described  out  at  length.  It's  all  right  to  tip 
tables,  and  make  them  lurch  around  the  place 
groaning  and  spelling  out  people's  dead  friends, 
but  I  don't  think  a  mere  long  recital  of  these 


44        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

manifestations  is  very  interesting.  After  Mo- 
ther, the  Angel  threw  him  a  dissatisfied  look, 
and  then  settled  down  to  do  her  duty  by  him. 
Cosgrove  does  n't  believe  in  talking  to  any  one 
unless  you  like  them,  and  he  carefully  says  so 
to  any  one  he  does  n't  like,  but  Stella  has  n't 
got  Greenwich  Village  manners,  only  ideas. 

After  Stella  had  put  him  through  his  paces, 
he  soon  went  away,  and  the  next  time  I  saw 
him  I  met  him  at  the  La  France  —  and  we 
danced.  Since  then  I  Ve  seen  him  a  good  deal 
at  the  Websters'  too. 

He  was  with  us  on  the  worst  bat  I  ever  went 
on  in  my  life,  and  I  still  remember  it  with  the 
cold  shivers  creeping  up  and  down  my  spine. 
Of  course,  it  was  just  Marion's  craziness,  and 
it  came  out  all  right  in  the  end,  but  I  thought 
at  one  time  that  we  should  all  end  up  in  the 
night  court.  It  began  more  reasonably  than 
most  things  do,  but  it  went  on  and  on  like  a 
nightmare. 

We  went  to  walk  first,  and  we  got  so  far 
down  the  Avenue  —  the  girls  preening  and 
strutting  along  the  way  they  do,  and  not 
flirting  so  hard  that  every  decent-looking  man 
they  met  turned  around  to  see  why  not  —  that 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        45 

they  insisted  on  going  home  in  a  taxi.  Now, 
I'm  not  supposed  to  taxi  much  unless  I  go 
with  a  guardian.  Mother's  read  a  lot  of  sto- 
ries about  taxi  bandits,  and  she  thinks  I  'd  be 
drawn  and  quartered  at  the  very  least  if  I 
dared  to  climb  into  a  cab  without  a  chaperon, 
but  the  girls  insisted,  and  there  were  three  of 
us,  so  I  swallowed  Mother's  scruples  and  went 
along. 

We'd  just  given  the  chauffeur  my  address 
when  we  saw  Carrington  loping  along  the 
Avenue,  and  we  got  him  in.  While  we  were 
arranging  him  in  our  midst  Marion  spoke 
softly  to  the  driver  and  told  him  to  go  out  to- 
wards the  Drive  instead  of  taking  us  home. 
So  he  did.  It  was  a  long  time  before  any  of  the 
rest  of  us  woke  up  to  the  fact,  because  we  were 
fooling  over  a  box  of  caramels  Mertis  had  in 
her  muff,  and  Carrington  was  holding  her  hand 
and  trying  to  make  her  give  them  up  to  him,  or 
else  stroking  her  on  the  cheek  and  calling  her  a 
nice  little  kitty.  It 's  curious  that  he  seems  to 
like  all  that  kind  of  palavering  with  the  girls 
when  his  attitude  to  me  is  so  different.  He 
always  talks  to  me  about  my  philosophy  and 
the  fineness  of  my  sensibilities. 


46        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"You'd  better  put  me  down,  somewhere," 
he  said  warningly  when  he  found  out  the  true 
state  of  things;  "I've  a  dinner  engagement 
and  it's  five-thirty  now." 

"We'll  put  you  down  at  the  end  of  the  sub- 
way," Marion  said  daringly. 

"Well,  if  you  do  it  in  less  than  half  an  hour." 

We  drove  on  and  on.  Marion  got  out  once 
and  gave  the  chauffeur  some  instructions,  and 
finally  Carrington  demanded  to  know  what 
was  happening. 

"We're  going  to  your  old  subway  station 
now,"  Marion  said,  "but  if  you  have  n't  really 
got  a  dinner  engagement  you  may  just  as  well 
come  along.  We  have  n't  got  any  money  to 
pay  for  the  taxi,  but  we're  going  to  keep  on 
beyond  Yonkers  where  my  uncle  lives,  and 
get  it  of  him." 

"You  little  devil,"  Carrington  said;  "I 
have  n't  money  enough  to  pay  for  it." 

He  has  n't  very  much  money.  His  job  is  a 
more  important  than  lucrative  one.  I  think 
it  is  so  nice  of  him  spending  so  much  on  me  for 
teas  and  dancing. 

"But  have  you  a  dinner  engagement?" 
Marion  persisted. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        47 

"I  have." 

"Could  you  break  it?" 

"If  I  don't  turn  up,  my  hostess  will  draw  the 
obvious  conclusion,  that  I  found  something  I 
liked  better." 

"Please  stay,"  I  said;  "I'm  getting  fright- 
ened." 

"All  right,"  he  said. 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  when  we 
got  to  Marion's  uncle's  the  house  was  closed 
up.  The  family  had  gone  to  Florida.  By  that 
time  the  chauffeur  was  getting  quite  nasty. 
We  just  told  him  to  go  back  again  —  that 
was  all. 

In  Yonkers  Carrington  got  out  and  bought 
about  a  million  sandwiches  and  ginger  ale 
to  go  around.  The  meter  went  up  in  leaps 
and  bounds.  It  was  seven  dollars  before  we 
turned  around.  Mertis  was  so  frightened  her 
teeth  were  chattering,  but  Marion  was  be- 
having like  a  sport.  She  always  does  when  it 's 
her  funeral.  She  made  the  mistake  of  telling 
the  chauffeur  not  to  go  to  her  house  address, 
after  all,  but  to  go  on  downtown  to  another 
uncle's.  She  had  just  remembered  that  her 
father  and  mother  were  dining  out,  and  she 


48        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

did  n't  want  to  tell  the  servants.  The  chauf- 
feur was  so  suspicious  that  this  was  the  finish- 
ing straw,  and  he  began  threatening  to  have  us 
arrested,  and  everything. 

"It's  a  good  lesson  for  the  girls,"  Carrington 
whispered  to  me;  "they  do  crazy  things  like 
this  all  the  time." 

"You  won't  let  it  go  too  far,  will  you?"  I 
besought. 

He  made  a  little  tunnel  with  his  hands. 

"No,"  he  breathed  through  it. 

At  the  end  we  did  go  back  to  the  Webster 
house,  and  we  did  n't  find  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Carrington  took  the  money  out  of  his  pocket 
and  paid  for  the  cab.  He  'd  had  it  all  the  time. 
Of  course,  instead  of  being  grateful  the  girls 
were  furious. 

"I'll  send  it  to  you  to-morrow  morning," 
Marion  said,  thinking  he  would  decline  it,  but 
he  did  n't.  I  guess  he  thought  they  needed 
more  of  a  lesson. 

He  walked  home  with  me,  and  left  me  at  my 
door.  He  held  my  hand  longer  than  he  ever 
held  it  before.  I  suppose  he  knew  that  I  had 
been  frightened,  though,  of  course,  it  was  silly 
to  be  when  he  was  there  all  the  time. 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        49 

"Your  eyes  are  as  big  as  saucers,"  he  said, 
examining  them. 

"You've  got  rather  big  eyes  yourself,"  I 

said.    He  has;  they  are  a  little  like  Omar's, 

only  much  more  beautiful,  blue  and  sleepy. 

"All  the  better  to  see  you  with,  my  child." 

"Well,  as  long  as  you  don't  eat  me  up." 

"I  won't  promise  that,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHENEVER  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there 
are  too  many  puzzling  elements  in  my  life,  all  I 
have  to  do  is  to  think  how  many  more  of  them 
Prunella  Page  has.  Compared  with  hers  my 
life  is  as  simple  as  a  game  of  solitaire.  After 
all,  I  only  have  to  play  my  own  hand.  Pru- 
nella's mother  drinks,  and  she's  a  vamp  be- 
sides. I  've  always  had  the  vague  wish  that  we 
had  some  really  aristocratic  blood  in  our  fam- 
ily. We  have  way  back,  but  so  far  back  that  a 
lot  of  grocers  and  ship  captains  and  things  got 
in  between  us  and  it;  but  the  Pages  belong  to 
such  a  good  old  family  that  nobody  till  this 
present  generation  ever  worked  for  a  living. 
Mrs.  Page  was  a  famous  Southern  beauty,  and 
yet  she's  killing  Prunella  with  the  most  out- 
rageous antics. 

Prunella  is  lovely.  She  has  long  slim  legs 
and  ankles,  and  regular  piano-playing  hands  — 
I  could  n't  stretch  an  octave  until  two  years 
ago.  Her  face  is  a  little  too  long,  but  she  fluffs 
her  lovely  light  hair  out  over  her  temples,  and 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        51 

looks  like  a  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
and  most  divinely  fair.  I  do  like  poetry. 

She  does  n't  talk  much  about  her  mother, 
not  about  the  real  inwardness  of  her  affairs, 
but  the  mere  facts  she  enumerates  are  often 
blood-curdling.  In  the  first  place,  this  twenty- 
two-year-old  husband  wants  to  get  a  job  and 
earn  his  living,  and  Mrs.  Page  won't  let  him. 
She  has  n't  got  very  much  money,  but  she 's 
afraid  to  let  him  out  in  the  world  for  fear  his 
pristine  innocence  will  be  worn  off,  and  also 
that  he  won't  have  so  much  time  to  devote 
to  her  and  the  Pekingese,  Reggie.  From  the 
time  she  gets  up  in  the  morning  till  she  takes 
down  her  henna  hair  at  night  (I  call  her  the 
Henna  Madonna),  Prunella  and  Guy  are  kept 
on  the  rapid  jump  with  soft  pillows  and  smell- 
ing-salts, and  hot  coffee  and  aromatic  spirits  of 
ammonia.  She  is  n't  sick  at  all,  only  the  kind 
of  delicate  that  women  get  when  they've  got 
lots  of  vitality  and  won't  take  any  exercise  to 
work  it  off.  They  make  the  other  fellow  take 
the  exercise  from  sheer  joy  in  swift  movement, 
I  think.  Then,  when  she  gets  too  awfully  bored 
even  to  have  a  tantrum  without  help  from  out- 
side, she  begins  to  drink  a  little  until  she  winds 


52        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

up  completely  pickled,  to  put  it  inelegantly. 
She'd  be  a  peach  to  look  at  if  she  hadn't 
roughened  a  naturally  poor  skin  with  rouge 
and  stuff,  and  if  it  were  n't  for  that  hair, 
but  Prunella  and  Guy  evidently  see  past  the 
Cubistic  decoration  to  the  work  of  art  itself. 
Prunella  speaks  of  her  mother's  looks  with 
bated  breath.  Well,  so  do  I. 

I  was  having  my  struggles  with  Bobby  the 
other  day  when  Prunella  came  to  see  me.  I 
don't  suppose  I  am  specially  fitted  to  pry 
into  Bobby's  development  along  certain  lines, 
but  there  is  nobody  else  in  our  family  to  do  it. 
He  certainly  does  n't  think  that  babies  come 
from  cabbages,  and  I've  seen  a  look  in  his 
eyes  when  Mother  was  speaking  guardedly  of 
Stella  that  made  me  think  he  ought  to  discuss 
the  matter  with  some  member  of  his  own  fam- 
ily. Mother  certainly  was  n't  much  help  to  me, 
though  she  would  have  been  if  she  had  thought 
fit  to  time  her  discussion  of  the  facts  of  life 
about  three  and  a  half  years  earlier  than  she 
did.  Of  course,  Bobby  is  eleven.  I  have  al- 
ways meant  to  get  up  my  nerve  to  tackle 
Father  about  it,  but  I  never  did.  I  don't 
think  much  of  the  school  Bobby  goes  to.  It's 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        53 

a  compromise  between  Mother  and  Stella  — 
Montessori  and  water  —  and  a  lot  of  bad  little 
boys  go  to  it.  I  will  say  if  Bobby  could  look 
anybody  in  the  face  when  they  were  talking  to 
him  like  a  Dutch  uncle  it  would  be  me.  I  was 
glad  to  see  Prunella  in  spite  of  the  interrup- 
tion. Bobby  untied  the  bows  on  my  shoes  and 
slid  out  toward  the  door,  but  when  he  met 
Prunella  coming  in,  he  said: 

" How  do  you  do?  I  guess  it 's  going  to  rain," 
very  politely  in  passing. 

"Maisie,  I  want  to  ask  you  something," 
Prunella  said,  without  many  preliminaries. 
"I  can't  think  what  is  the  right  thing  to  do. 
I  know  you  have  ideas  on  what  is  right  and 
wrong  in  certain  situations." 

"Well,  sometimes,  I  have,"  I  said,  "but 
not  so  often  as  you'd  think." 

"What  I  want  to  ask  is  whether  or  not  you 
think  you  have  a  right  to  suppress  facts  from 
people  that  they  might  distress  too  much?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  do." 

"What  I  mean  is  —  well,  you  know  what 
a  highly  nervous  condition  my  mother  is  in. 
She  is  n't  quite  —  normal.  She  does  n't  sleep 
much,  and  what  sleep  she  gets  is  n't  really 


54        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

restful  sleep.  She  tosses  so  much  in  bed.  I  have 
to  keep  pulling  the  bedclothes  over  her  all 
night  long."  Nice  job  for  Prunella,  is  n't  it? 

"I  know,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  saw  somebody  she  loves  doing 
something  she  would  n't  like.  Not  a  very 
harmful  thing,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  but 
slightly  deceptive.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
about  it.  He  —  well,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  it 
was  Guy  —  does  n't  know  that  I  saw  him,  so 
that  part's  all  right." 

"Where  did  you  see  him?" 

"At  a  restaurant." 

"With  a  squab?" 

"A  —  a  chicken,"  Prunella  said  explosively; 
"would  you  tell?" 

"No,  I  would  n't,"  I  said. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you're  the  strongest." 

"Stronger  than  who?" 

"Stronger  than  both  of  them.  You  have  to 
use  your  judgment.  They  have  n't  got  any  to 


use." 


"I  have  n't  got  much.   If  it  were  you,  why 
would  n't  you  tell?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "God  does  n't  tell." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        55 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  He  —  if  there  is  a  He  —  lets 
things  like  that  happen,  and  go  right  on  hap- 
pening to  the  end.  He  started  this  universe 
with  one  general  idea  of  letting  human  life 
work  itself  out.  He  put  evil  and  deceit  and 
everything  in  to  keep  it  going.  Otherwise  it 
would  stop." 

"You're  too  deep  for  me." 

"Well,  all  I  mean  is  that  if  God  or  Some- 
thing started  things  going  the  way  they  are 
going,  and  He  has  the  courage  to  let  them  go 
on  that  way,  why,  then  I  have." 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  telling 
or  not  telling  Mother  whether  I  saw  her  hus- 
band buying  lunch  for  —  a  chicken." 

"Well,  it  has.  If  you  tell  it  will  only  com- 
plicate matters  further." 

"I  know  it,  but  is  it  right  not  to?  Is  n't  it 
sneaky?" 

I  had  an  inspiration. 

"If  you  were  a  doctor,"  I  said,  "and  your 
mother  were  your  patient,  would  you  let  her 
be  told  a  thing  like  that?" 

"No,  I  would  n't." 

"Well,  always  think  of  that,  then.  That's  a 


56        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

good  idea  to  hold  on  to.  If  you  don't  have  an 
idea  like  that  in  the  back  of  your  mind  you 
won't  be  any  good  in  emergencies." 

"Of  course,  you  never  have  any  such  prob- 
lems in  your  life." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  I  said,  though  I  did  n't  want 
to;  "I  don't  tell." 

Of  course,  you  can't  really  help  anybody  un- 
less you  are  willing  to  give  them  your  con- 
fidence when  they've  given  you  theirs,  but 
what  you  want  to  do  is  to  keep  your  own 
things  under  your  hat  mostly. 

In  addition  to  her  other  troubles  Prunella 
seemed  to  be  getting  interested  in  a  man.  I 
could  n't  be  sure,  but  she  spoke  about  him  in  a 
way  that  she  has  never  spoken  about  anybody 
else.  He's  older  than  she  is,  and  his  name  is 
Anthony  Cowles;  Tony  she  calls  him.  She  has 
known  him  for  a  good  many  years. 

"I  wonder  if  Tony  would  think  it  was  all 
right,"  she  mused. 

"No  man  approves  of  telling  tales,"  I  said, 
which  seemed  to  satisfy  her. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  get  married," 
Prunella  said,  apropos  of  the  baby  dress  I  be- 
gan working  on  later  when  we  were  ensconced 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        57 

in  the  dug-out.  I  usually  begin  with  callers  in 
the  living-room,  and  then  work  toward  my 
own  quarters  when  the  family  begins  to  ac- 
cumulate. 

"I  think  I  shall,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  ever  think  about  eugenics?  Don't 
you  think  anybody  ought  to  have  an  awfully 
good  inheritance  in  order  to  be  married?  " 

"Well,  very  few  people  have,"  I  said. 

"Don't  you  think  people  ought  to  be  bred 
like  cattle?  Only  the  good  specimens  allowed 
to  perpetuate  the  race?" 

"I  used  to  think  so,  but  now  I  don't  think 
it  would  work,"  I  said.  Stella  has  expounded 
the  subject  so  much  that  I've  had  to  get  up 
some  kind  of  a  point  of  view  on  it. 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"Because  people  are  n't  cattle." 

"Don't  you  think  there  ought  to  be  a  law 
that  forbade  people  who  were  n't  physically 
perfect,  or  who  had  a  bad  inheritance,  to 
marry?" 

Then  I  did  rather  a  tactless  thing.  I  put  my 
finger  right  on  the  spot  where  her  trouble  was; 
her  whole  face  wore  such  a  wretched  expression 
that  I  could  n't  help  it. 


58        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Don't  you  go  thinking  you've  got  a  bad 
inheritance,"  I  said;  "nobody's  physically 
perfect,  and  nobody's  family  is  above  re- 
proach. This  offspring's  grandfather"  —  I 
held  up  my  handiwork  —  "has  been  in  jail  for 
aiding  an  enemy  alien,  but  what  difference 
does  it  make?  He  or  she  won't  be  branded  by 
it  or  anything,  and  if  it  goes  to  jail  itself  for 
the  same  or  other  crimes,  it  will  be  on  its  own 
head.  That's  the  way  I  look  at  it." 

"But  if  its  grandfather  had  any  really  bad 
habits  like  drinking  or  anything?"  Prunella 
trembled. 

"Yes,  but  if  its  mother  and  father  did  n't. 
Look  at  it  practically,"  I  said;  "wouldn't 
you  rather  have  a  chance  to  be  born  into  al- 
most any  nice  family  you  know  than  not  to 
have  it?  Every  family  has  its  drawbacks,  but 
supposing  they  all  refused  to  have  children, 
what  would  happen  to  the  world  then?  What 
would  have  happened  to  us  if  our  mothers  and 
fathers  had  come  to  that  decision?" 

"Sometimes  I  wish  that  mine  had,"  said 
poor  Prunella. 

After  she  had  cried  a  little  on  my  shoulder 
she  felt  better. 


BEAUTY  -  AND  MARY  BLAIR        59 

Tommy  Nevers  came  in  and  created  a  di- 
version. He  knows  a  man  who  knows  Tony 
Cowles,  whom  he  calls  "Scowls,"  and  thinks 
that  he  is  about  the  finest  fellow  that  ever 
breathed,  so  they  had  a  pow-wow  about  that, 
and  Prunella  went  home  happier.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don't  think  her  mother's  drinking  is 
very  serious,  considered  as  a  menace  to  pos- 
terity. It's  just  hard  on  Prunella. 

Sometimes  I  think  it 's  a  greater  responsibil- 
ity to  have  a  mother  than  to  be  one.  Maybe 
Stella's  oncoming  offspring  will  find  it  so. 
Stella  believes  in  eugenics  like  anything,  but 
she  does  n't  believe  there  is  any  mote  in  the 
family  eye.  I'm  not  so  sure.  She's  sort  of 
queer  herself ,  and  Father  is  n't  a  very  strong 
character,  or  very  well  when  he  is  n't  looked 
after  properly.  He  wrote  Mother  a  very  funny 
kind  of  letter,  which  was  brought  in  to  her  just 
after  Prunella's  departure,  when  I  was  having 
these  reflections  on  the  subject  of  perpetuity. 

Mother  did  n't  quite  know  what  to  make  of 
it,  so  she  passed  it  around.  It  is  a  good  idea 
never  to  write  Mother  anything  that  you 
would  n't  be  willing  to  share  with  the  janitor 
and  the  elevator  man. 


60        BEAUTY —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Dear  Helen:"  he  said,  "Canada  is  a  rotten 
place,  but  I  have  thought  seriously  of  never 
leaving  it.  Could  you,  would  you  by  any 
chance  think  of  joining  me  in  Montreal  before 
I  go  farther  West?  If  you  would,  please  wire 
me  at  once.  We  could  go  into  camp  for  a  week 
as  we  planned.  We  could  have  quite  a  cheerful 
time  bumming  around  and  seeing  the  sights. 

"I  don't  feel  very  much  married,  and  that's 
the  truth.  I  should  be  glad  to  have  my  wife 
again,  and  to  act  as  a  general  guide  around  the 
country.  I  've  had  a  poor  time  so  far,  but  you 
could  fix  all  that.  Helen,  will  you  come? 

"I've  had  the  collywobbles,  but  they're 
better  now.  You  know  how  these  attacks  go. 
Miserable  for  a  day;  but  next  I  don't  know  that 
I  've  got  a  stomach.  Then  the  trouble  all  over 
again. 

"There  are  shows  and  all  kinds  of  good 
eating,  and  some  drinking.  We  could  be  very 
happy.  I  wish  you  would  send  me  that  wire. 
It  is  n't  a  good  idea  to  let  a  husband  loose  too 
long.  You  'd  like  it  after  you  got  started.  I  've 
got  the  money,  and  for  God's  sake  let's  spend 
it  together.  ROBERT. 

"P.  S.  For  God's  sake  —  come." 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        61 

"You're  going,  aren't  you,  Mother?"  I 
asked  anxiously. 

"What  would  you  children  do?" 

"What  we  always  do.  Stella  and  I  can  run 
the  house." 

"You  think  you  can?" 

"We  can." 

"I  can't  leave,"  Mother  said;  "Robert 
ought  to  realize." 

"Why  do  you  think  he  said,  'For  God's 
sake  —  come?'  Father  doesn't  say  things 
like  that  very  often." 

"No,  he  does  n't,"  Mother  said;  "I  suppose 
he  is  n't  feeling  well.  I  am  sorry  he  had  to  go. 
I  must  send  him  some  warmer  things." 

Even  Stella  thought  the  letter  sounded  a 
little  ominous.  She  said  she  thought  Mother 
ought  to  go  and  bring  him  home,  and  have 
him  go  through  a  thorough  examination  by  a 
diagnostician.  Mother  said  she  'd  write  him  to 
come  home.  I  could  imagine  how  the  prospect 
of  a  thorough  diagnosis  would  cheer  his  wan- 
ing spirits,  and  how  likely  it  was  that  he  would 
hasten  home  to  have  it  done,  but  there  was  n't 
anything  more  I  could  say,  so  I  did  n't  say 
it.  I  got  hold  of  Bobby  again  instead. 


62       BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Bobby,"  I  said,  "we  didn't  finish  talk- 
ing." 

"Talking  about  what?" 

"You  know  about  what,"  I  said. 

"I  was  n't  talking  about  nothing." 

"Well,  I  was,"  I  said. 

We  paused.  If  I  had  n't  been  holding  Bobby 
by  a  button  I  should  n't  be  able  to  speak  in 
the  plural. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?"  he  asked 
finally,  after  I  had  eyed  him  for  a  while;  "that 
I'11-always-be-a-good-little-boy-and-never-tell- 
a-lie?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  I  said.  "I  don't  want  you  to 
say  anything.  I  want  to  say  something  to  you. 
It  isn't  about  Stella;  we've  talked  about 
Stella." 

"Yes,  we  have!"  he  jeered. 

"Well,  I  have;  and  I'm  through  with  that 
subject.  Don't  mutter,"  I  said,  shaking  him, 
"but  listen  to  me.  It's  about  school." 

"What  about  school?" 

"I  —  know  about  it,"  I  said,  bluffing. 

Bobby  looked  very  scared. 

"I  just  want  you  to  remember  that  I  know 
about  it." 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        63 

"All  right.  Let  me  go,"  Bobby  said.  "Ouch, 
you  '11  get  that  button  off,  and  if  a  big  bunch  of 
cloth  comes  I'll  get  the  dickens." 

"Bobby,"  I  said,  "did  you  hear  me?" 

"Sure." 

"Those  horridest  boys  will  probably  grow 
up  to  be  criminals.  They  are  n't  smart,  they 
are  just  horrid."  I  told  him  about  horridness  in 
general  as  much  as  I  dared,  and  how  important 
it  was  to  think  of  such  things  and  understand 
hygiene  and  all  that. 

"I  don't  go  round  with  that  bunch  much,"  he 
said;  "honest  I  don't.  I  wish  you  'd  let  me  go." 

"But  you  listen  to  them,"  I  said,  hazarding 
a  guess. 

"Not  much." 

"It's  just  common  sense  not  to,"  I  said; 
"you  think  I'm  just  a  girl  and  I  don't  know." 

"Sure,  you  are." 

"But  all  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  stick  around 
with  the  decent  boys." 

"They  are  all  about  alike." 

"No,  they  aren't." 

"Who's  going  to  tell  the  difference?" 

" You  are,"  I  said  unexpectedly;  "you  know 
the  difference  as  well  as  I  do." 


64        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"All  right,  let  me  go." 

"Bobby,"  I  said,  "you  do  know  the  differ- 
ence, don't  you?" 

"  You  would  n't  think  there  was  any  differ- 
ence," he  muttered. 

"I  don't  care  what  I'd  think,"  I  said, 
"you've  got  to  think!" 

"All  right,"  he  said,  squirming  away  for 
good,  but  some  way  I  did  feel  that  I  had  made 
a  little  impression. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT'S  a  curious  thing  about  getting  blue.  You 
get  up  in  the  morning  and  the  sun  is  shining, 
and  there  is  lots  of  hot  milk  for  your  coffee, 
and  you  get  into  a  clean  shirt-waist  that  makes 
you  look  as  if  you  had  just  been  bought  at  a 
department  store  that  minute,  and  yet  you  feel 
a  general  sense  of  being  too  discomfortable  to 
live.  I  don't  think  anybody  ought  to  feel  that 
way,  and  I  try  not  to,  but  I  don't  succeed. 

It  distresses  me  to  death  for  Mother  to  be 
blue,  and  it  makes  me  equally  depressed  for 
Stella  to  be  so  composed  under  all  circum- 
stances. I  think  if  we  ever  shared  any  of  our 
moods  it  would  be  better,  but  there  is  very  little 
class  spirit  in  this  family.  I  cheer  the  things  that 
Sister  jeers  at,  and  Mother  remains  serenely 
distressed  at  her  own  hallucinations.  I  think  a 
family  ought  to  coordinate  as  one  man.  When 
the  head  of  it  moves  —  either  parental  head  — 
the  children  ought  to  wiggle  like  so  many 
fingers  and  toes.  Well,  anyway,  they  ought  to 
feel  some  of  the  same  things  at  the  same  time. 


66        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Somebody  ought  to  be  responsive  to  some- 
body. I  positively  feel  grateful  to  Bobby 
when  he  inquires,  "What's  eating  you,  Sis- 
ter?" because  he  always  selects  the  time  when 
something  is. 

I  read  a  long  article  in  the  "Athenaeum" 
on  Hunger  the  other  day.  As  far  as  I  can  find 
out  I  have  all  the  symptoms  that  an  animal  has 
when  it  is  hungry,  only  the  great  difference  is 
that  I  don't  know  what  I  am  hungry  for.  I 
suppose  it's  life,  really.  I  am,  it  appears,  in  a 
behavior  cycle,  which  is  a  state  you  stay  in  until 
you  get  your  result,  unless  you  are  interrupted 
by  death  or  accident,  or  the  intervention  of 
another  behavior  cycle.  You  get  very  restless 
and  uncomfortable,  you  agitate  yourself  till 
you  get  what  you  want,  and  then  you  get  it. 
That 's  the  one  encouraging  thing  —  you  get  it. 
Still,  it's  considerably  more  abstract  to  be 
hungry  for  life  than  for  food.  You  get  back  to 
the  same  old  question  —  what  do  you  mean  — 
life?  You'd  think  that  I  had  life  enough  with 
all  the  people  I  know,  and  things  I  have  to  do, 
but  none  of  it  seems  very  feeding,  somehow.  I 
sympathize  with  Father  whose  great  cry  is  to 
be  utilized. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        67 

His  letter  from  Canada,  by  the  way,  was 
followed  by  a  silence  so  deep  that  even  Mother 
got  worried,  and  began  wiring  him.  It  was  a 
week  before  even  the  telegrams  got  any  result. 
I  think  perhaps  this  item  added  some  edge  to 
my  behavior  cycle,  which  was  cutting  into  me 
most  awfully  —  chafing  is  the  word.  Every 
night  when  I  went  to  bed  I  cried  before  I  could 
get  to  sleep,  and  then  I  could  n't  most  likely. 

Carrington  Chase  did  n't  come  near  me  for 
over  two  weeks  at  a  stretch  while  this  was  going 
on.  He  did  n't  telephone  me  or  anything.  The 
only  thing  I  mind  about  not  seeing  Carrington 
is  that  things  get  so  flat  when  I  'm  not  talking 
or  dancing  with  him  two  or  three  times  a  week. 
He  has  his  faults,  of  course,  but  he  makes 
everything  seem  so  interesting.  When  he  did 
turn  up  we  had  rather  a  funny  evening.  I  de- 
cided that  he  ought  to  come  to  the  house  more. 
Of  course,  there  is  n't  any  harm  in  my  meeting 
him  at  the  La  France.  I  meet  Tommy  Nevers 
there,  and  the  time  is  past  when  you  have  to  be 
so  excruciatingly  conventional  about  your  best 
friends  of  either  gender,  but  since  I  had  n't 
been  telling  Mother  exactly  the  true  status  of 
the  case  I  began  to  feel  rather  squirmy  about 


68        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

it.  I  don't  lie  to  Mother.  When  she  asks  I  al- 
ways tell  her,  but  she  does  n't  very  often  ask. 
There  are  a  few  general  rules  which  she  as- 
sumes I  keep  inside  of,  and  of  course  I  'm  over 
the  legal  age.  Eighteen  plus  is  being  an  adult 
in  these  days. 

Well,  Mother  had  Ellery  and  I  had  Carring- 
ton,  and  we  sat  off  in  our  separate  corners  of 
the  living-room  and  talked  earnestly,  a  part 
of  the  time. 

"I  have  n't  seen  you  for  ages,"  I  told  him. 
"  I  suppose  you  've  been  doing  a  lot  of  inter- 
esting things." 

"Quite  interesting,"  he  agreed. 

"Have  you  been  to  many  parties  and 
theaters?" 

"I've  been  to  some  of  the  openings.  I've 
seen  several  very  bad  shows,  and  one  good 


one." 


"What  was  the  good  one?" 

"'Sacred  and  Profane  Love.'  It  develops 
rather  disappointingly,  but  the  first  act  where 
the  girl  comes  to  the  man's  apartment  is  su- 
perbly done.  She  has  the  subconscious  in- 
centive which  the  man  does  not  understand, 
and  she  works  for  the  one  result." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        69 

"She  has  a  behavior  cycle,  has  n't  she?"  I 
said. 

"A  what?" 

I  explained,  but  in  rather  different  terms 
from  those  of  the  "Athenaeum"  author.  When 
I  read  the  article  it  did  n't  sound  suggestive 
at  all,  but  I  suppose  when  you  come  to  think 
into  it  that  it  is  —  like  all  science. 

"You're  a  funny  child,"  Carrington  re- 
marked thoughtfully,  after  I  had  elucidated. 
"You  have  a  very  frank  mind,  and  yet  a  very 
excessive  sensibility." 

I  always  get  sensibility  and  sensuality 
mixed  up.  One  means  that  you  are  sensitive, 
and  the  other  means  that  you  are  not,  that 
you  are  a  little  coarse,  in  fact. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  I  said.  Then  I  remembered  which 
was  which.  "I'm  not  sensitive  in  the  sense  of 
being  touchy,"  I  added. 

"I've  never  seen  so  much  as  a  flash  of  tem- 
per in  you." 

"You  may  some  day,"  I  said. 

"Have  you  missed  me  all  this  time?  It's 
been  a  week  or  two,  has  n't  it?" 

"It's  been  two  weeks  and  three  days  and 
eleven  hours  to  be  exact,"  I  said.  "I  know  be- 


70        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

cause  it  was  during  the  time  when  we  were  so 
worried  about  my  father.  He  was  rather  sick 
in  Canada,  and  we  could  n't  seem  to  get  any 
news  from  him." 

"Why  did  n't  you  telephone  me?" 

"I  don't  telephone  to  people  much.  Be- 
sides, I  thought  you  'd  telephone  if  you  wanted 
to  see  me." 

"That  does  n't  necessarily  follow." 

"Have  you  wanted  to  see  me?"    I   said. 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Then  — why?" 

"You  know  what  happened  to  Little  Red 
Riding  Hood?" 

I  did  n't  quite  know  what  he  meant  by  that. 
He  was  only  trying  to  get  a  rise,  I  suppose. 

"Well,  she  didn't  live  to  tell  the  tale,"  I 
said. 

"Have  you  seen  Leonard  Trask's  exhibition 
at  Kncedler's  this  week?"  Ellery  asked,  lifting 
his  voice  across  the  intervening  spaces  betweer 
the  two  tete-a-tetes. 

"Yes,  I  saw  them  yesterday.  Rather  re- 
markable studies."  Carrington  has  a  great 
deal  of  presence  of  mind  always. 

'Now  that  I  think  of  it  I  saw  you  there. 


..  • 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        71 

You  were  with  a  lady  with  a  long  red  feather, 
were  n't  you?" 

"Mrs.  Harten  Jones,"  Carrington explained. 
"Trask  is  her  cousin.  He  spent  eight  months 
in  Alaska  doing  the  things.  I  think  he  man- 
aged to  bring  away  some  pretty  rugged  im- 
pressions." 

"Big  ideas  compressed  to  a  simplicity  of 
expression  that's  astounding." 

"  Yes,  and  on  such  small  canvases,  too." 

I  went  to  see  them  the  next  day,  and  I 
thought  they  were  simply  funny.  Three  un- 
easy icebergs  the  way  Bobby  would  have 
drawn  them,  and  a  wudge  of  cloud.  A  red 
man,  not  really  drawn,  but  horribly  smeared 
against  a  background  of  vermicelli  stars.  Give 
me  the  Vorticists ! 

"  Would  n't  you  like  to  get  us  some  ginger 
ale  or  White  Rock,  dear?"  Mother  said. 

"I'll  go,"  Ellery  said. 

"No,  let  Mary." 

"May  I  come  too?"  Carrington  asked. 

I  showed  him  the  kitchen,  and  he  was  de- 
lighted with  it. 

"Let's  not  hurry  back,"  he  said;  "they 
don't  want  us." 


72        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"They  want  their  drinks,"  I  said. 

"They're  having  a  good  time.  Who  is  Mr. 
Howe?" 

I  explained. 

"Your  mother  has  known  him  a  good 
many  years?" 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said. 

"I've  never  heard  you  mention  Mrs.  Har- 
ten  Jones,"  I  said. 

"Well,  she's  a  friendly  acquaintance  with 
whom  I  sometimes  dine  and  go  about  a  little." 

"A  widow?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  not  exactly.  One  of  these  modern 
affairs  with  a  husband  abroad  most  of  the 
time,  you  know." 

"I  shouldn't  like  that,"  I  said;  "I  don't 
like  modern  situations.  If  I  took  the  trouble  to 
marry  a  husband  I  should  n't  want  him  to  go 
abroad." 

"I  don't  think  he'd  be  likely  to.  You  said 
your  father  was  ill  in  Canada  —  is  he  better 
now?" 

"  Well,  he  was  the  last  time  we  got  any  news 
from  him.  He  was  n't  really  sick,  only  nerv- 
ous and  depressed.  We've  lost'  him  again 
now,  but  the  mails  are  so  uncertain  we  don't 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        73 

feel  worried  at  all.  Besides,  it's  nearly  time 
for  him  to  start  home  again." 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  your  father?" 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said. 

"Your  mother  is  a  very  beautiful  woman. 
Mr.  Howe  is  a  fine  fellow,  too,  is  n't  he?" 

We  got  all  the  bottles  and  glasses  together 
on  a  tray,  and  then  we  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  and  swung  our  feet  again. 

Carrington  slipped  his  arm  over  my  shoul- 
der, and  we  sat  there  watching  the  lights  that 
opened  on  the  court,  and  the  different  people 
or  shadows  on  the  shades  that  appeared  at  the 
windows  one  after  another.  It  was  very  rest- 
ful. 

Stella  and  Cosgrove  were  in  the  living-room 
when  we  went  back.  The  furniture  consists 
mostly  of  new  mahogany  and  old  stuffed 
chairs;  when  Mother  gets  a  new  thing  it  has  to 
be  good,  but  personally  I  'd  rather  it  would  be 
the  other  way  round,  old  mahogany  that  is. 
The  Websters  have  lovely  old  highboys  and 
secretaries  and  things  that  could  stand  old 
stuffed  chairs.  Still  Mother  does  make  a  room 
look  cozy  with  everything  the  right  distance 
apart,  and  all  that. 


74        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Stella  was  wearing  a  cross  between  a  smock 
and  a  curtain,  in  bright  green,  and  she  looked 
lovely.  Cosgrove,  on  the  contrary,  looked  like 
Bobby  before  he  has  washed  up  after  base- 
ball, only  Bobby  never  needs  a  shave.  Carring- 
ton  had  never  met  him  before,  and  seemed 
quite  pleased  to  have  done  so  until  some- 
body started  something  about  the  presidential 
candidate.  Ellery  was  for  Hoover  and  Car- 
rington  for  Wood,  and  Cosgrove,  of  course, 
for  the  overthrow  of  the  Government  by  his 
dear  friends  the  Reds.  They  were  all  of  them 
too  well  used  to  argument  to  get  very  violent, 
but  the  general  atmosphere  was  rather  purple. 

Carrington  said  that  General  Wood  was  a 
gentleman  and  that  all  his  friends  were  gen- 
tlemen, and  while  that  was  n't  all  there  was 
to  it,  still  it  would  help  some.  The  word  "gen- 
tleman" is  like  a  red  rag  to  Cosgrove,  but  he 
almost  managed  to  behave  like  one  under  the 
coercion  of  Stella's  earnest  gaze.  He  does  like 
Stella  —  I'll  say  that  for  him.  Ellery  did  n't 
care  who  was  president  as  long  as  it  was 
Hoover!  Then  they  all  started  on  President 
Wilson,  and  got  together  in  tearing  him  limb 
from  limb.  Poor  old  Wilson,  I  can't  help  being 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        75 

sorry  for  anybody  that  has  as  many  people 
down  on  him  as  he  has.  I  can't  help  feeling 
that  he 's  a  good  deal  like  the  old  lady  I  used 
to  buy  eggs  from  in  the  country,  who  always 
said  that  she  would  have  been  a  very  different 
woman  if  she  had  had  her  health. 

There  was  something  quite  humorous  about 
me  and  Mother  and  Stella  all  sitting  up  with 
our  eagle  eyes  on  our  own  men,  and  quietly 
disapproving  of  everything  each  other's  man 
said.  Ellery  is  all  right  as  far  as  he  goes,  but 
that  is  n't  very  far  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it.  Cosgrove  is  all  wrong,  but  he  goes  farther. 
Carrington  —  well,  he's  just  fascinating,  and 
what  he  thinks  does  n't  matter  so  much.  The 
other  two  are  not  in  the  least  intuitive,  but 
Carrington  knows  everything  that  any  one 
thinks. 

It  must  be  a  queer  thing  to  be  in  love  the 
way  Stella  is.  Mother  and  I  are  just  romantic, 
of  course.  Mother  has  a  perfectly  good  hus- 
band to  whom  she  is  devoted,  but  she  likes  to 
have  the  other  sex  admire  her  just  the  same. 
I  like  to  admire  the  other  sex.  Admiration 
does  n't  do  me  any  good.  I  want  to  be  the 
admiree,  if  I  can.  But  Stella,  "so  calm,  so 


76        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

cool,  so  bright "  —  with  apologies  to  which- 
ever poet  it  is  —  is  really  devoted  to  her  un- 
kempt husband,  and  likes  him  as  well  as  being 
in  love  with  him.  They  are  n't  exactly  human, 
of  course  —  Bolshevists  never  are,  I  guess  — 
and  it 's  a  little  bit  like  a  fish  loving  a  crab,  or 
two  cross-eyed  people  trying  to  look  at  one  an- 
other. Some  people  have  a  warm,  ruddy  glow 
about  them,  like  a  lamp,  but  the  Angel  and 
her  cult  have  an  indirect  lighting  system  con- 
cealed in  their  ceiling,  as  it  were. 

We  sat  around  a  table  for  a  little  while  to 
please  Mother,  who  wants  very  much  to  get  a 
message  from  Sir  Oliver  Lodge's  son  Ray- 
mond, and  touched  little  fingers  in  the  dark 
until  we  almost  fell  asleep  —  at  least  I  did. 
Carrington  has  a  very  strong  magnetic  cur- 
rent that  is  shooting  as  well  as  stimulating.  I 
could  feel  the  throbbing  all  through  me  like 
somebody's  heart  beating  near  you,  all  from 
a  little  pressure  of  his  hand.  The  table  heaved 
and  groaned  a  little,  but  it  did  n't  do  anything 
else,  and  Cosgrove  wanted  so  very  much  to 
tell  an  unpleasant  story  about  a  man  that  was 
murdered  in  Paris  communicating  the  details 
of  his  death  to  some  friends  in  Greenwich 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        77 

Village  that  he  was  finally  encouraged  to  talk, 
and  the  seance  broke  up.  Stella  had  to  keep 
him  in  hand  very  firmly,  because  I  think  the 
story  was  even  more  improper  than  it  sounded. 
Carrington  did  n't  think  he  ought  to  tell  it 
anyway. 

I  had  a  little  minute  alone  with  him  in  the 
hall  when  he  said  good-night.  We  were  stand- 
ing just  out  of  sight  by  the  door,  and  Mother 
and  Ellery  were  conversing  in  low  tones  on  the 
seat  in  the  bend  of  the  hall. 

"Good-night,  Little  Red  Riding  Hood,"  he 
said,  and  then  he  did  a  thing  I  did  n't  like,  I 
don't  know  why.  He  ran  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
from  my  elbow  to  my  wrist. 

"Good-night,"  I  said,  putting  my  hands  be- 
hind me. 

"I  was  very  glad  to  meet  your  sister,"  he 
said. 

"She  is  lovely  looking,  if  she  is  my  sister." 

"I  like  those  vine  leaves  she  wears  in  her 
hair,"  he  said,  "and  your  mother  is  very 
lovely,  too." 

Mother's  voice  rose  for  a  moment. 

"I'm  not  an  unhappy  woman,"  she  was 
saying,  "only  perhaps  a  misplaced  one." 


78        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Ellery's  answer  was  too  low  for  us  to  hear. 

"It's  a  curious  family  for  a  little  girl  like 
you  to  be  growing  up  in." 

"I'm  not  a  little  girl/'  I  said;  "I  am  older 
than  you  think." 

"You  are  pretty  wise,"  he  said;  "you'd 
have  to  be."  He  seemed  to  be  weighing  my 
wisdom.  "What  do  you  think  of  it  all,  I  won- 
der," he  said. 

"What  all?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

His  face  was  very  close  to  mine,  and  sud- 
denly a  funny  thing  happened.  I  thought  that 
Mother  kissed  Ellery  around  the  corner  of  the 
wall.  I  could  n't  possibly  have  seen  her  if  she 
had,  and  I  know  now  it  was  only  my  imagina- 
tion, but  I  backed  away  from  Carrington  in- 
voluntarily. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said. 

"  I  felt  a  little  sick  for  a  moment,"  I  answered 
truthfully.  "I  don't  know  why." 

"You're  a  funny  child,"  he  said. 

I  am,  I  suppose,  and  sometimes  I  wish  I 
were  a  little  funnier  or  less  funny.  I  wish  the 
whole  family  were. 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  SAW  the  ambulance  coming  down  the  block, 
and  it  beat  me  to  the  door.  Even  when  I  stood 
aside  to  let  the  internes  pass  me  I  had  no  idea 
of  the  real  truth.  It  was  only  when  I  heard  the 
blond  one  asking  the  door  man  if  Mrs.  Blair 
lived  in  the  building  that  I  began  to  get  an 
inkling  of  the  facts.  Mother  was  n't  in  for- 
tunately, as  emergencies  are  rather  apt  to  take 
it  out  of  her. 

Stella  and  Bobby  and  I  got  the  room  ready, 
and  by  the  time  they  had  got  Father  into  bed 
with  ice  on  his  head,  and  hot-water  bottles  at 
his  feet  to  draw  the  blood  down,  he  began  to 
show  signs  of  regaining  consciousness.  I  got 
Stella  out  of  the  room  as  quickly  as  I  could. 
She  was  perfectly  composed  as  usual,  but  she 
began  to  turn  terribly  pale  about  the  eyes,  and 
I  was  afraid  that  just  physically  she  could  n't 
stand  the  racket.  Bobby  is  the  clumsiest  boy 
on  earth  when  anybody 's  looking  at  him,  but 
very  quick  with  his  hands  when  he  is  n't  ob- 
served and  self-conscious.  I  found  out  what 
to  do,  and  Bobby  and  I  did  it. 


80        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Then  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  very  quietly 
until  Father  opened  his  eyes. 

"Well,  Baby,"  he  said,  and  shut  them  again. 

"Well,  Daddy,"  I  said,  and  slipped  down  to 
the  floor,  still  holding  his  hand,  and  went  to 
sleep  almost  as  soon  as  he  did.  The  doctor  had 
told  me  he  would  drop  off  into  a  natural  sleep 
after  he  came  to  himself. 

"I  wish  I  had  let  you  go,"  he  said  drowsily 
once. 

"I  wish  you  had,  Daddy."  Then  he  was  off 
again. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  got  at  the  facts  — 
hours  that  is.  Mother  did  n't  come  in.  She  had 
gone  to  a  concert  with  Ellery,  and  then  they 
went  somewhere  to  dinner.  She  tried  to  get 
us  by  telephone,  but  the  operator  had  told  her, 
in  her  usual  convincing  fashion,  that  there  was 
no  such  number  as  ours,  and  that  the  tele- 
phone was  out  of  order  besides,  which  is  the 
usual  way  the  telephone  company  adds  insult 
to  injury. 

"Were  you  sick  like  this  all  the  time?"  I 
demanded,  when  my  patient  began  to  show 
signs  of  We  again. 

"I  was  n't  sick  at  all.  I  only  kept  on  feeling 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        81 

rottener  and  rottener.  I  was  taken  sick  on  the 
train,  and  pretty  nearly  cashed  in,  I  guess." 

"But  how  did  you  even  get  home?" 

"There  was  a  doctor,  and  they  tried  to  go 
through  my  clothes  for  identification  marks. 
I  came  to  enough  to  give  them  my  address, 
and  tell  them  to  shove  me  in  a  taxi  and  send 
me  to  it." 

"  You  did  n't  come  home  in  a  taxi,  Daddy," 
I  said,  and  I  described  his  entrance  at  length. 

"Where  was  your  mother?" 

"Gone  out  to  a  concert  with  Ellery." 

"What  time  is  it  now?" 

I  looked  at  my  wrist-watch. 

"Eight  o'clock." 

"She  stayed  out  to  dinner,"  he  said. 

I  told  Bobby  to  watch  out  and  break  it  to 
her  gently. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  her  to-night,"  he  said. 

"She  —  she  never  goes  out  like  this,"  I 
said,  "  she  does  n't  really.  This  is  the  first 
time  since  you've  been  gone  she  was  ever  out 
to  dinner,  without  one  of  us  anyway." 

"That's  all  right,"  Father  said;  "I  don't 
care.  Was  that  Bobby  who  put  a  water  bottle 
at  my  feet?" 


82        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

ic  Yes,  but  I  thought  you  were  unconscious." 

"It  was  pretty  hot."  Father  smiled. 

"  Did  he  burn  you?  Bobby  would  be  awfully 
mortified." 

"We  won't  tell  him,"  Father  said;  "get  him 
in  and  let  me  look  at  him." 

"Do  you  want  to  see  Stella,  too?"  I  said. 

"Not  unless  it's  absolutely  necessary." 

Bobby  was  sitting  forlornly  in  the  hall  when 
I  called  him.  I  had  forgotten  to  report  to  him, 
ancj,  I  guess  he  had  been  pretty  scared  sitting 
all  alone  there. 

"  Is  he  —  worse?  "  he  said  in  sepulchral  tones. 

"No,  Son,  I'm  better,"  Father  called  from 
the  bed. 

I  put  my  arm  around  him,  and  found  he  was 
shaking  with  nervousness,  but  he  pushed  me 
away.  "How  are  you,  Father?"  he  said,  ap- 
proaching the  snowy  surface  of  counterpane, 
under  which  stretched  Father's  limp  contours; 
"did  you  have  a  pleasant  trip  in  Canada?" 

"Very  pleasant,  thank  you,"  Father  smiled; 
"sorry  to  come  home  in  such  bad  shape." 

"Oh!  that  was  all  right,"  Bobby  said. 
Father  had  never  talked  to  him  quite  in  that 
vein  before. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        83 

"Thank  you  for  looking  out  for  me,  you  and 
Mary." 

"I  did  n't  mind,"  said  Bobby. 

"I  was  pretty  far  gone  for  a  while." 

"Did  n't  you  know  it  when  you  were  riding 
in  the  ambulance?" 

"He  did  n't  know  he  was  in  an  ambulance," 
I  explained. 

"Gee!  "Bobby  said. 

I  shooed  him  out  when  Father  began  to  get 
tired,  but  outside  of  the  door  he  held  me  up. 

"What's  he  got?"  he  asked  in  those  same 
deep  tones.  "Apoplexy  or  something?" 

"No;  just  acute  indigestion." 

"Why,  anybody  has  that!" 

"Well,  people  can  die  of  it  just  the  same," 
I  said,  not  realizing  that  later  we  were  going 
to  hear  of  somebody  we  knew  who  did. 

Mother  was  more  upset  to  find  that  Father 
had  come  home  sick  without  finding  her  on  the 
job  than  she  was  at  the  mere  fact  of  his  illness. 
Of  course,  the  worst  of  that  was  over  when  she 
came  back.  I  kept  her  from  going  in  to  see 
him  as  long  as  I  could,  but  she  went  just  the 
same.  He  put  up  his  hands  with  a  little  hope- 
less gesture,  as  if  she  had  come  too  late,  though 


84        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

it  was  a  very  good  time  for  her  to  arrive,  if  she 
had  to  arrive  after  the  first  excitement  at  all. 
She  stood  looking  at  him  with  her  little  close 
blue  toque  still  draped  about  her  head. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said;  "oh!  Robert, 
why  did  n't  you  telegraph?" 

He  made  the  same  gesture  with  his  hands, 
palms  up. 

"Are  you  sure  you're  better  now?" 

"Yes,  Helen,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  and  put  her  hand 
on  one  of  his.  He  let  it  stay  there,  but  he  did 
not  move  one  of  his  little  fingers. 

"Are  you  sure  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  for 
you?" 

"Not  now,"  he  said. 

"Has  Mary  done  everything  the  doctor  or- 
dered? Would  n't  you  like  it  if  I  slipped  into 
some  different  clothes,  and  then  came  back? 
Would  n't  you  like  to  have  me  stay  with  you?  " 

"Not  any  more,"  Father  said  heavily. 

"I  could  just  as  well." 

Father  turned  on  his  pillow  and  shut  his 
eyes,  still  with  his  hands  open  and  the  palms 
turned  upward.  It  was  hard  to  understand  his 
not  having  anything  to  say  to  Mother. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        85 

I  would  almost  rather  be  sick  myself  than 
have  any  one  else  be.  When  pains  are  racking 
my  slender  frame  I  know  their  location,  and 
just  exactly  how  well  I  am  going  to  be  able  to 
stand  them.  When  anybody  else  is  sick  you 
suffer  for  two,  yourself  and  them.  I  suffered 
for  Father  all  that  week,  because  his  sickness, 
as  they  say,  was  more  of  the  soul  than  of  the 
body.  Not  that  acute  indigestion  is  any  joke 
—  it  is  n't. 

He  did  n't  have  a  nurse,  so  I  was  it,  aided 
and  abetted  by  Stella,  with  Mother  in  charge, 
of  course.  She  is  quite  good  in  cases  of  sickness, 
and  she  did  her  duty  faithfully  by  Father,  but 
he  did  n't  react  to  her,  somehow.  He  liked  to 
have  me  or  Bobby  in  the  room,  or  just  to  lie 
back  and  shut  his  eyes.  He  was  wondering 
most  of  the  time  what  was  the  use  of  getting 
well,  and  what  particular  excuse  he  had  for 
existence  in  the  bright  roomy  apartment  for 
which  he  had  hitherto  so  cheerfully  paid  the 
rent.  I  knew. 

He  sent  me  to  his  office  for  his  mail,  twice, 
and  both  times  I  brought  him  an  accumulation 
of  pale  lavender  letters  in  a  feminine  hand- 
writing, which  he  waited  to  read  till  he  was 


86        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

alone.  There  is  no  doubt  that  it's  uncanny 
to  have  your  father  or  mother  philandering, 
however  innocently.  I  felt  as  if  those  laven- 
der letters  were  positively  snaky,  and  I  hated 
to  bring  them  into  the  house  as  if  they  were 
so  much  poison.  With  my  head,  of  course,  I 
could  only  grant  Father  his  right  to  a  corre- 
spondence with  a  lady.  When  I  get  a  husband, 
however,  I  hope  to  stand  for  all  the  elements 
comprised  in  lavender  note-paper,  and  long 
red  feathers,  myself.  The  funny  part  of  it  is 
that  Stella  is  the  only  member  of  our  family 
who  believes  in  the  freedom  of  the  sexes,  and 
neither  she  nor  Cosgrove  cares  anything  in  the 
world  about  philandering. 

Sometimes  I  think  Father  tried  to  talk  to 
me  about  it  all,  but  I  just  automatically  stopped 
him  for  some  unknown  reason.  I  can  be  of  as- 
sistance to  him  in  other  ways,  but  not  that  way. 

I  was  helping  him  sort  and  classify  his  busi- 
ness letters  one  day  when  I  came  upon  a  bill 
for  a  thousand  dollars  for  a  Hudson  seal  coat. 

"I  did  n't  know  you  got  Mother  that  coat," 
I  said. 

"She  wouldn't  have  it,"  Father  said,  not 
noticing  what  I  held  in  my  hand. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        87 

"But  you  got  it  for  her  just  the  same." 

"I  did  not,"  said  Father. 

"Here's  the  bill." 

"Let  me  have  it,"  he  said,  sitting  up  sud- 
denly, and  putting  out  his  hand  for  it.  "That 
was  a  mistake.  I  —  I  countermanded  the  or- 
der." 

"What  a  pity  when  you  had  already  paid 
for  it."  He  had,  for  the  bill  was  receipted. 
I  had  a  vision  of  long,  sweeping  lines  of  rich 
seal  sweeping  about  my  young  form.  "What 
was  it  trimmed  with?" 

"Skunk,"  Father  said  briefly;  "no,  beaver. 
It  was  changed  for  me." 

"I  wish  you  had  brought  it  home  to  me." 

"  I  wish  I  had,"  said  Father,  "  but  it  would  n't 
have  done.  Don't — don't  say  anything  about 
it  to  your  mother.  She  had  her  chance  at  it." 

Father  adores  women's  clothes.  He  does  n't 
take  such  an  interest  in  mine  because  he 
does  n't  understand  flapper  garments  so  well. 
Peter  Pan  collars  and  tam-o'-shanters  discour- 
age him,  but  let  me  put  on  sleeveless  pink 
chiffon  or  anything  soft  and  trailly  with  a 
waist-line — he  insists  on  waist-lines  to  Stella's 
disgust  —  and  he 's  my  willing  slave.  I  wish  he 


88        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

liked  to  take  me  to  places  more,  but  he  says  he 
can't  talk  like  Tommy  Nevers,  and  if  he  could 
he  would  n't  have  the  nerve.  I  think  he  is  dis- 
couraged with  the  memory  of  the  night  I  took 
him  to  the  La  France  with  the  Webster  girls. 
They  treated  him  the  way  they  do  anything 
else  masculine  under  ninety -five,  and  it  rather 
palled  on  him.  He  liked  the  way  they  looked, 
but  when  he  began  his  own  little  line  of  small 
talk  Marion  interrupted  him  with  baby  stuff 
all  the  time,  and  finally  told  him  that  if  he  was 
good  she  would  dance  with  him  after  she  had 
had  another  strawberry  ice  cream.  Mertis  re- 
minded him  that  if  he  was  good  he  would  be 
lonesome,  whereupon  with  the  muttered  re- 
mark that  it  would  be  a  welcome  change  he 
abandoned  us  to  our  fate,  only  reappearing 
in  time  to  pay  our  check.  He  wants  to  be 
amused,  Daddy  does,  but  the  thing  that  amuses 
him  the  most  is  to  be  amusing  to  other  people. 
I  don't  quite  fill  the  bill,  because  we've  got 
such  a  difference  of  taste  in  jokes,  but  he  used 
to  be  very  funny  and  sweet  to  Mother  and  sim- 
ply love  talking  to  her.  Now  he  does  n't  care. 
I  think  her  not  going  on  the  Canadian  trip  was 
the  mistake  she  made. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        89 

As  usually  happens,  my  cogitations  led  me 
to  the  subject  of  Carrington  very  often  while  I 
was  doing  my  duty  to  Father.  I  'm  not  natu- 
rally secretive,  only  discreet,  and  I'd  rather 
talk  about  the  things  I  think  about  if  I  can. 
Besides,  I  thought  if  Father  knew  what  a  good 
friend  I  have  it  might  vaguely  cheer  him  up, 
cheer  him  up  to  know  that  people  did  have 
such  relationships.  Of  course,  Carrington  is  n't 
only  a  friend,  he's  an  ideal.  He  knows  about 
me,  and  what  I  think  and  feel.  If  Father  only 
had  somebody  like  that  he  would  n't  be  so 
listless,  so  I  began  to  dilate  on  Carrington's 
good  qualities. 

"Where  do  you  see  him?"  Father  asked; 
"in  the  bosom  of  the  family?" 

"Sometimes,"  I  said,  "but  the  bosom  is  so 
full  most  of  the  time  that  I  meet  him  places  — 
like  the  La  France  and  at  the  Webster  girls'." 

Father  gave  a  reminiscent  shudder. 

* '  Anywhere  else  ?  " 

I  named  our  dancing  haunts,  and  Father 
considered  them. 

"I  would  n't  go  to  the  Rotunde,"  he  said, 
"or  Bealy's." 

"Are  the  other  places  all  right?" 


90        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  should  n't  have  said  your  mother  would 
have  let  you  go  to  them." 

"Mother  doesn't  know,"  I  said;  "do  you 
think  I  ought  to  tell  her?" 

"I  think  you  ought,"  he  said. 

"She'll  stop  me  going." 

"I  suppose  she  will.  Why  do  you  want  to 
go?" 

"I  like  to  dance,  and  I  like  to  be  with  Car- 
rington." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  all  right?" 

"The  Websters  have  known  him  for  years, 
and  he  goes  about  with  all  the  girls  I  know. 
Ellery  knows  him." 

"Then  your  mother  thinks  he 's  all  right.  He 
probably  is.  Trot  him  in  sometime,  and  I'll 
look  him  over.  Not  that  I  'm  much  of  a  judge." 

"Father,"  I  said,  "I  don't  think  I'll  tell 
Mother,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Oh!  I  don't  mind,"  said  Father;  "I  prob- 
ably ought  to,  but  I  don't.  You  can't  get  any- 
thing to  drink  any  more.  It's  your  mother's 
lookout  to  see  where  you  go.  I  don't  think 
your  morals  will  suffer." 

"You  don't  care  much  about  my  morals,  do 
you?"  I  said  saucily. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        91 

"I  don't  care  much  about  anybody's  morals 
any  more,"  he  said. 

I  told  Carrington  about  this  whole  conver- 
sation. I  have  got  into  the  habit  of  telling  him 
almost  everything  that  is  on  my  mind  at  all. 
I  like  the  philosophical  slant  he  gets  on  me, 
and  the  way  he  helps  me  to  deal  with  my 
problems.  Some  people  might  call  him  rather 
cynical,  but  I  like  his  kind  of  cynicism.  It 
seems  so  real.  The  other  people  I  know  take 
life  so  much  as  a  matter  of  course  that  it's 
quite  frightening  —  life  and  death. 

It  was  Prunella  Page's  stepfather  who  died, 
the  little  young  man  that  her  mother  married 
before  he  was  of  age,  and  it  was  my  first  ex- 
perience since  I  was  a  little  girl  of  having  any- 
body die  who  was  connected  with  my  own 
friends  in  any  way.  He  died  of  acute  indiges- 
tion, suddenly  and  without  any  warning  when 
he  was  standing  at  the  telephone  trying  to 
telephone  for  the  doctor  for  Mrs.  Page  who 
thought  she  was  getting  sick.  Well,  I  could  n't 
get  over  it,  or  get  any  help  or  comfort  about 
it  till  I  saw  Carrington.  Everybody  seems  to 
take  death  so  coolly  when  it  is  n't  their  own 
immediate  connection.  You  'd  think  that  going 


92        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

out  of  the  world  was  just  one  of  the  explained 
things  that  people  could  be  criticized  for  and 
gossiped  about. 

"I  understand  why  you  wanted  me,"  Car- 
rington  said;  "you're  frightened." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  am,  and  I'm  awfully  — 
chilled  too.  It  seems  so  strange  that  anybody 
I  know  could  die  like  that." 

"That  is  the  way  it  seems,  isn't  it?"  he 
said. 

"Prunella  is  n't  a  very  deep  girl,"  I  said, 
"she's  just  sweet.  I  don't  mean  she's  shallow, 
but  she  can't  seem  to  get  any  hold  on  her- 
self." 

"How  did  her  mother  take  it?"  I  had  told 
him  everything  about  her  mother  —  but  one 
thing. 

"  She  is  n't  —  has  n't  been  quite  herself 
since,"  I  said. 

"Does  she  seem  to  realize  it?" 

"I  don't  think  she  does,"  I  said;  "she  does 
n't  see  any  one  but  Prunella." 

"Poor  kid." 

"Prunella  is  fortunate  in  one  thing,  just  the 
way  I  am.  She  has  one  friend  who  under- 
stands the  way  she  feels." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        93 

"A  man  friend?" 

"Yes,  Tony  Cowles,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  know  Tony  Cowles?" 

"I've  never  seen  him." 

"I  went  to  college  with  him." 

"Oh!  is  n't  that  exciting?"  I  said;  "did  you 
like  him?" 

Carrington  deliberated. 

"He  was  all  right,"  he  said;  "he  had  a  su- 
periority complex,  but  he  was  all  right." 

"I  never  heard  of  a  superiority  complex." 

"Neither  did  I,"  Carrington  laughed,  "but 
he  had  one." 

"Prunella  says  that  he's  awfully  quiet  and 
unassuming." 

"  He  may  be.  He 's  the  pedagogic  type,  that's 
all." 

I  don't  know  why  it  worried  me  to  have 
Tony  Cowles  called  pedagogic,  but  I  suppose 
it  was  only  because  I  knew  he  was  being  so 
heavenly  sweet  to  Prunella  in  her  need. 

"It  is  n't  so  much  having  Mrs.  Page's  hus- 
band die,"  I  said,  "that  has  upset  me.  It's  — 
it's  people's  attitude.  They  don't  seem  to 
know." 

"Know  what?"  said  Carrington  softly. 


94        BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Know  anything.  They  just  talk  and  talk 
and  talk  about  it." 

"They  do." 

"I  think  there  is  only  one  thing  to  realize 
when  people  die,  if  you  only  could,  but  I 
can't.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  the  only  person  in 
the  world  that  was  even  trying  to  realize  this 
about  him." 

"Realize  what,  dear?" 

"That  when  you're  dead  you're  dead,"  I 
blurted  out;  "and  he's  dead." 

"Yes,"  Carrington  said,  "he's  dead." 

"And  he  was  n't  fit  to  die,"  I  said;  "why, 
I'm  not  fit  to  die.  I  have  n't  worked  any- 
thing out,  and  he  —  why,  he  was  really  shallow 
and  uneducated  and  stupid." 

"Poor  little  man,"  Carrington  said.  Then 
he  added,  "Don't  be  frightened,  dear,  death 
is  the  greatest  adventure,  you  know." 

"But  he  was  n't  an  adventurer,"  I  said. 

He  put  his  arm  around  my  shoulders,  and 
we  sat  still  meditating.  It's  very  warming  to 
have  any  one  who  understands  your  inmost 
thoughts  the  way  he  does  mine.  I  don't  think 
that  Tony  Cowles  is  really  pedagogic. 

After  a  while  I  went  on  to  tell  him  about 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR        95 

Father,  and  the  fur  coat  that  Mother  would  n't 
let  him  buy  her,  and  the  way  I  felt  when  I 
found  the  receipted  bill  among  his  letters. 

He  gave  a  little  exclamation  at  this. 

"  You  don't  think  that  Father  really  bought 
the  coat  for  me,  and  is  keeping  it  for  a  sur- 
prise, do  you?" 

"No,"  Carrington  said;  "he  didn't  buy  it 
for  you." 

"It's  a  pity  he  didn't,  isn't  it?  I  should 
have  looked  so  well  in  it." 

"You  look  very  well  now,"  he  said;  "all 
these  philosophical  agitations  are  good  for  you. 
To-night  you  are  almost  beautiful." 

"That's  nice,"  I  said.  He  wouldn't  say 
beautiful  even  if  he  meant  it.  He  does  n't  ex- 
press himself  that  way. 

"You  understand,"  I  said,  "and  nobody 
else  does.  I  can't  just  accept  things  the  way 
they  come.  I've  got  to  work  them  out  some- 
how, or  I  can't  stand  it.  My  mind  or  my  soul 
or  whatever  it  is  grows  more  and  more  hun- 
gry all  the  time.  I  've  got  to  know.  You  realize 
that  about  me,  don't  you?  I've  got  to  find  out 
what  it's  all  about." 

"You  certainly  have,"  Carrington  said.  "I 


96        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

hope  somebody  will  have  the  courage  some 
day  to  teach  you  —  beautifully." 

"I've  got  to  know,"  I  repeated,  "I've  got 
to  know." 

"You've  got  to  feel,"  Carrington  said, 
gently. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  my  relation 
with  Tommy  Nevers  might  come  under  the 
general  head  of  philandering,  and  I  got  so  wor- 
ried about  it  that  I  sent  for  Tommy,  and  put 
in  a  whole  evening  trying  to  find  out.  I  will 
say  that  I  succeeded  in  mystifying  Tommy 
greatly.  He 's  a  queer  boy  —  he  cerebrates 
so  much,  and  with  so  little  result,  that  it's 
funny,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  I 
should  have  chosen  him  for  the  object  of  my 
solicitations. 

We  settled  down  in  the  dug-out,  and  he 
made  the  air  of  that  semi-private  retreat  foggy 
with  his  special  brand  of  cigarettes.  If  any 
one  in  the  vicinity  was  having  a  few  surrepti- 
tious whiffs  at  the  same  time  it  was  quite  un- 
noticeable.  Anyway  I  never  have  smoked  in 
public  places. 

"I've  had  a  rather  hard  day  at  the  office," 
Tommy  said.  He's  been  out  of  college  six 
months,  and  had  his  job  six  weeks. 

"Have  you?  "I  said. 


98        BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"There's  a  great  deal  of  red  tape  to  be  as- 
similated in  a  big  office  like  ou*s." 

"I  suppose  there  is,"  I  said,  wondering  how 
I  could  get  the  subject  of  our  personal  relations 
uppermost. 

"My  day  goes  like  this.  I  get  up  in  the 
morning,  shave,  dress,  breakfast  on  the  cus- 
tomary orange  juice,  oatmeal,  and  eggs." 

"The  citric  fruits  are  rather  out  of  favor 
just  now,"  I  said,  quoting  Stella. 

"And  coffee."  Tommy  did  n't  scorn  the  in- 
terruption, it  just  did  n't  penetrate.  "Then  I 
hustle  to  the  subway.  While  I  'm  in  the  train 
I  try  to  concentrate  on  the  day's  work.  I  go 
over  in  my  mind  the  possible  emergencies  I 
will  have  to  meet,  and  then  I  mentally  attack 
the  day's  routine.  By  the  time  I  'm  actually  at 
Bowling  Green  I ' ve  made  a  real  beginning,  by 
getting  a  lot  of  preliminary  thinking  out  of  the 
way." 

"That's  fine,"  I  said. 

"If  you  use  the  first  fresh  vigor  of  your 
mind  for  planning  the  day's  campaign  you 
have  an  advantage  over  the  man  who  has  n't." 

"You  are  interested  in  business,  are  n't  you, 
Tommy?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR        99 

"Yes,  I  am.  A  young  man  starting  out  the 
way  I  am  brings  his  opportunity  to  his  job. 
It  is  n't  the  job  that's  the  opportunity.  The 
opportunity  is  in  himself." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  I  said.  "Do  you 
ever  see  Carrington  Chase  downtown?  He's 
in  the  export  business,  you  know." 

"My  interests  are  all  in  concrete,  nothing 
else  takes  much  of  my  attention." 

"I  thought  you  might  meet  him  out  to 
lunch,  or  something." 

"I  have  n't,"  Tommy  said;  "I  thought  he 
was  rather  a  tea  hound  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  always  meet  him  whenever  I  go  any- 
where to  tea." 

"  He  could  say  the  same  thing  of  you,"  I  said, 
"and  you're  not  a  tea  hound." 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  ladies'  man,"  said 
Tommy. 

"Neither  does  he." 

"I  thought  he  did,"  Tommy  said;  "look  at 
the  way  he  hangs  around  the  Webster  girls." 

"The  Webster  girls!"  I  said.  Poor  Tommy, 
he  has  n't  got  a  very  fine  caliber  and  he  does 
n't  understand  much  about  life. 

"They  are  nice  enough  girls,  but  they  don't 


100      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

carry  any  weight.  I  like  a  woman  with  some- 
thing in  her  bean.  Look  at  you,  for  instance; 
I  like  to  put  in  a  lot  of  time  with  you,  be- 
cause you're  such  a  good  listener,  and  when 
you  do  advance  an  idea  it  always  agrees  so 
well  with  what  I  think  myself." 

"It  seems  to,"  I  said  with  deep  double 
meaning. 

;' You've  got  horse  sense,"  Tommy  said; 
"I  like  a  girl  that  makes  a  fellow  comfort- 
able, but  that  knows  where  she  gets  off  just  the 
same;  a  girl  that's  a  good  sport,  but  does  n't 
want  to  get  out  where  the  ice  is  thin." 

"And  that's  got  a  permanent  wave  if  it's 
done  well  enough,"  I  supplemented. 

"That's  just  a  matter  of  appearance," 
Tommy  said. 

"Why  do  you  like  to  be  at  the  beck  and  call 
of  a  girl?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  am,"  Tommy  said. 
I  did  n't  remind  him  that  he  was  at  my  beck 
and  call.  "I  like  to  sit  around  and  talk  about 
things,  and  tell  girls  what  I  think  of  them,  and 
all  that." 

"What  other  girls  do  you  like  to  do  that 
to?"  I  asked  practically. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      101 

"There  aren't  any  others,"  Tommy  said, 
"specially." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "if  I  were  you  I'd  find  a  few." 

We  finished  up  the  evening  by  going  to  make 
a  call  on  Prunella,  poor  lamb.  Every  time  I 
see  her  my  heart  begins  like  a  toothache.  Now 
that  she  has  n't  her  stepfather  to  bear  the  bur- 
den with  her  Mrs.  Page  puts  in  all  her  time 
vamping  her,  eating  her  up  as  if  she  was  so 
much  good  nourishment.  I  don't  see  how  Pru- 
nella lives,  even  in  a  hotel. 

I  was  a  little  sorry  we  had  come  when  I 
found  that  we  had  interrupted  a  visit  from 
Tony  Cowles.  They  were  sitting  together  on 
the  couch  in  their  small  gimcracky  sitting- 
room,  and  she  had  evidently  been  telling  her 
troubles  and  having  them  sympathized  with. 
The  door  had  been  set  ajar  for  us,  and  we  went 
right  in  without  ringing  the  bell.  Mrs.  Page  — 
of  course  I  ought  to  call  her  by  her  latest  mar- 
ried name,  which  is  Pemberton,  but  I  never  do 
—  does  n't  like  to  have  the  bell  rung.  She  was 
not  visible,  but  she  was  audible  from  time  to 
time. 

Tony  Cowles  was  an  entirely  different  per- 
son from  anything  I  had  expected.  He  was 


102      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

tall  and  blond  and  shy,  with  the  best  manners 
I  have  almost  ever  seen.  When  I  put  my  hand 
in  his  he  held  it  for  a  second,  and  looked  at  me 
without  smiling.  I  knew  he  was  examining  the 
kind  of  girl  Prunella  had  for  her  best  friend  in 
her  hour  of  trouble.  I  smiled  at  him  to  show 
him  that  I  wanted  to  do  the  best  I  could  for 
her,  and  his  answering  smile  was  like  a  flash  of 
light.  Some  people  smile  like  that. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you  came,"  Prunella  said. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  to  be  here,"  Tommy  said 
in  a  voice  as  solemn  as  Bobby's. 

"I've  been  trying  to  persuade  Prunella  to 
walk  around  the  block  with  me,"  Tony  Cowles 
said, "  but  she  does  n't  seem  to  be  persuadable." 

"There  is  nothing  so  refreshing  as  a  little 
fresh  air,"  Tommy  said. 

I  knew  Tony  Cowles  knew  that  was  funny. 

"Mother  does  n't  like  to  have  me  leave  her." 
A  low  moaning  from  the  inner  room  seemed 
to  bear  Prunella's  testimony  out. 

"Tommy  and  I  will  stay,"  I  said;  "it  will 
only  be  a  few  minutes." 

"Oh!  I  don't  think  I  ought  to,"  Prunella 
said.  She  was  so  tired  she  did  n't  want  to 
start  anything  new  with  her  mother. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      103 

"The  doctor  says  she  must  get  out  every 
day,"  Tony  Cowles  said;  "she  hasn't  been 
out  to-day." 

"I'll  go  if  Mother  will  let  me,"  Prunella 
said,  but  it  took  her  fifteen  minutes  closeted 
with  that  untold  parent  of  hers  to  get  it  ar- 
ranged. 

Then  it  was  decided  that  Tommy  was  to 
take  Prunella  out,  and  Tony  and  I  were  to 
keep  guard  outside  her  door.  Tony  being  a 
friend  of  the  family  could  rush  in  and  restore 
her  if  she  fainted,  I  suppose,  but  she  did  n't. 
She  just  kept  up  a  continuous  murmur  of 
suffering. 

"I'm  very  worried  about  Prunella,"  I  said 
to  Tony  Cowles,  as  the  door  closed  on  Tommy's 
sweetly  solemn  invitation  to  Prunella  to  come 
through  it. 

"What  shall  we  do  about  her?"  Tony 
Cowles  asked. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  don't  know." 

"If  I  can  get  Mrs.  Pemberton  into  a  san- 
atorium could  you  put  Prunella  up  with  you 
for  a  while?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  we  have  n't  got  a  very 
restful  place,  I  am  afraid.  It's  a  fairly  good- 


104      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

sized  apartment,  but  it's  got  a  lot  of  large 
people  in  it." 

"That  would  n't  do." 

"It  might  for  a  week  or  so." 

"No,"  said  Tony  Cowles.  I  understood  why 
they  called  him  "Scowls"  then.  "She  needs 
immediate  rest.  She  ought  to  be  somewhere 
that  she  can  relax.  If  I  make  some  plan  to 
send  her  into  the  country,  or  even  to  turn  over 
my  apartment  in  town  to  her  for  a  while,  could 
you  go  with  her?" 

"Yes,  I  could,"  I  said.  I  was  rewarded  by 
another  one  of  those  smiles.  Tony  Cowles 
likes  people  who  don't  shilly-shally,  as  well  as 
I  do. 

"We'll  call  that  settled,"  he  said,  and  we 
shook  hands  on  it.  It  is  n't  always  true  that  a 
handshake  is  an  indication  of  character;  at 
least  I  don't  think  it  is,  for  Carrington  has 
n't  the  kind  of  a  grip  that  makes  you  realize 
how  sympathetic  he  is,  but  Tony  Cowles,  on 
the  contrary,  has.  His  personality  is  certainly 
very  restful. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  handle  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton?"  I  said,  more  straightforwardly  than 
I  had  meant  to  speak. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      105 

"I  do,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  click  of  the 
jaw. 

"Prunella  won't  think  she  ought  to  go,  but 
you  think — ?"  I  could  n't  finish  my  sentence 
because  I  really  did  n't  know  what  I  wanted 
to  say. 

"I  think  she  ought  to  be  — " 

"Choked,"  I  finished  for  him. 

He  did  n't  seem  quite  so  lover-like  as  I  had 
expected,  but  he  was  nicer  than  my  wildest 
dreams  of  him.  In  fact,  I  liked  him  better 
than  any  man  I  had  ever  met,  excepting  Car- 
rington.  Carrington,  of  course,  penetrates 
your  soul,  and  Tony  Cowles  merely  weighs 
you  sort  of  judicially,  and  waits  for  you  to 
measure  up.  I  should  hate  not  to,  but  I  think 
I  did. 

Mrs.  Pemberton  made  a  noise  at  this  junc- 
ture, as  if  she  had  choked,  but  nothing  further 
until  Prunella  and  Tommy  came  in;  when 
Nell  had  one  more  session  with  her,  though 
briefer  than  the  last. 

"There  is  nothing  quite  so  refreshing  as 
fresh  air,"  Tommy  announced,  when  we  were 
all  at  last  seated  again. 

"It  is  very  refreshing,"  Prunella  said;  "I 


106      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

feel  a  lot  better.  I'm  glad  you  made  me  go, 
Tony." 

"  A  brisk  walk  in  good  clear  air  always  makes 
me  feel  fine,"  Tommy  said. 

"It  does  me,"  said  Prunella. 

Tony  Cowles  looked  too  interested  to  be 
true.  Of  course,  he  is  at  least  twenty-five,  and 
Tommy  is  just  of  age,  but  I  don't  think  he 
was  ever  given  to  repeating  himself  the  way 
Tommy  does. 

"I  think  the  air  uptown  in  New  York  is 
entirely  different  from  the  business  districts. 
It's  so  much  purer  the  higher  up  you  get." 

"Yes,  is  n't  it?"  Prunella  agreed.  She  likes 
Tommy,  though  she  does  n't  know  him  very 
well.  Probably  his  line  of  conversation  is 
very  much  like  that  of  her  dead  stepfather. 
Anyway,  she  seems  to  know  how  to  encourage 
it,  without  too  much  hard  labor.  I  either  work 
too  much  or  hedge  with  Tommy. 

"New  York  air  is  like  New  York  water, 
surprisingly  pure  for  a  city  of  the  size,"  Tony 
Cowles  said.  I  tremble  to  think  of  Carrington 
in  the  midst  of  a  prolonged  conversation  about 
pure  air. 

"Now  that  the  street-cleaning  department 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      107 

is  in  such  a  disgraceful  condition,  I  don't  see 
how  the  air  can  be  pure,"  said  Prunella. 

"Well,  it  is  n't  —  very,"  Tony  Cowles  said 
unbrilliantly. 

"Maybe  a  Soviet  Government  would  do 
more  for  it,"  I  suggested,  using  Stella  stuff. 

"What?"  said  Tony  Cowles. 

"Well,  it  works  in  Russia,"  I  said. 

"Look  out;  he  knows  an  awful  lot  about 
Russia,"  Prunella  said. 

"Well,  I  don't,"  I  said. 

"Nobody  does,"  said  Tony  Cowles,  shutting 
his  jaw  firmly. 

I  know  he  knows  a  lot  about  everything.  I 
can  see  it  in  him. 

"Do  you  know  Carrington  Chase?"  I  said. 

"Yes." 

"He's  a  great  friend  of  mine." 

"He  was  at  Yale  when  I  was." 

"He  said  he  knew  you." 

There  the  conversation  languished.  If  Car- 
rington thought  that  Tony  Cowles  was  peda- 
gogic, why,  Tony  Cowles  must  have  had  some 
kind  of  an  opinion  of  Carrington.  I  wished 
that  I  could  make  him  express  it,  but  I  could 
n't.  Tony  Cowles  may  be  school-teachery,  but  I 


108      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

did  n't  see  anything  of  it  on  my  first  meeting 
with  him.  He  is  n't  a  philanderer,  either. 

"Tommy,"  I  said  to  him  on  the  way  home, 
"you  once  said  to  me  that  this  is  a  man's 
world.  Do  you  really  think  it  is?" 

"Well,"  Tommy  considered,  "I  think  in  a 
great  many  instances  the  woman  pays,  but 
then  when  you  come  to  consider  it  so  do  men 
very  often." 

"Prunella  is  paying,  is  n't  she?" 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  that  little  girl," 
Tommy  said. 

"So  is  Tony  Cowles,"  I  said;  "how  did  you 
like  him?" 

"A  little  stiff,  but  agreeable." 

"I  think  it's  pretty  well  distributed,  after 
all,"  I  said. 

"What?  "said  Tommy. 

"The  —  the  world.  Men  pay,  too,"  I  said, 
thinking  of  Father;  "but  whatever  we  do, 
Tommy,"  I  said  as  I  bade  him  good-night  at 
my  own  door,  "don't  let's  philander." 

"Philander?" 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking,"  I  said,  "of  the 
people  I  know  that  do." 

"Oh!  you  mean  Carrington." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      109 
"No,"  I  said. 


"Well,  who  do  you  mean?" 

"Nobody  in  particular,"  I  said,  "really." 

"You  don't  mean  me,"  Tommy  said;  "all  I 
want  of  a  girl  is  to  have  her  a  good  old  pal  of 
mine." 

"Like  the  song,"  I  said;  "I  know  it.  I  really 
did  n't  mean  anything." 

"Well,  good-night,"  said  Tommy,  but  he 
made  a  few  general  passes  in  my  direction  that 
might  or  might  not  have  borne  out  my  original 
theory. 

"Good-night,"  I  said,  ducking. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THINGS  have  been  slightly  complicated  in  the 
family  since  Daddy  staggered  to  his  feet  after 
the  illness  that  followed  his  Canadian  trip, 
and  proceeded  to  ignore  his  home  ties  almost 
entirely.  I  don't  blame  him.  He's  got  this 
grudge  against  Mother,  and  he  does  n't  get 
the  things  he  likes  to  eat  at  home.  He  has  a 
big  comfortable  room  of  his  own,  but  even  so 
the  rest  of  the  house  is  all  littered  up  with 
manifestations  of  a  busy  life  —  Stella  typing 
articles  on  International  Solidarity  at  his  key- 
hole, and  all  that. 

I  Ve  tried  to  make  him  just  as  comfortable 
as  I  could,  but  one  daughter  does  n't  make  a 
family,  and  he  looks  on  most  of  my  attempts 
to  liven  him  up  with  cold  disfavor.  He  keeps 
thinking  he  ought  to  tell  me  that  I  ought  not 
to  go  out  with  Carrington  without  Mother's 
knowledge,  and  that  worries  him,  too.  Well, 
the  human  soul  is  a  very  lonely  thing,  as  Kip- 
ling or  somebody  says,  and  we've  all  got  one. 

As  for  Mother,  she  ought  to  be  looking  after 
me;  I  know  that;  but  I  was  wondering  the  other 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      111 

day  whether  I  ought  not  to  be  looking  after 
Mother.  She  ought  to  find  out  where  I  go,  and 
why  I  go  there. 

Fortunately  my  reasons  and  motives  for 
what  I  do  are  perfectly  sound,  but  suppos- 
ing they  were  n't?  I  'm  an  adult,  but  quite  a 
young  adult,  and  sometimes  I  might  be  sin- 
cerely in  need  of  the  administrations  of  a 
mother,  but  Mother  for  some  reason  or  other 
is  not  among  those  present  at  time  of  writing. 
She  is  n't  attending  to  her  business  of  mother- 
ing. If  her  philandering  with  Ellery  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  why,  then,  it  ought  to  be  looked 
into. 

"Mother,"  I  said  to  her  one  night  when 
Father  had  just  telephoned  that  he  was  n't 
coming  home  to  dinner  —  mostly  he  does  n't 
even  telephone  —  "  what  do  you  think  now 
about  Daddy  and  the  Canadian  trip?" 

"I  think  it  was  very  bad  for  him,"  she  said. 

"He  seems  a  good  deal  changed,"  I  ven- 
tured. 

"He  looks  badly,  but  then  he  had  a  good 
deal  of  work  to  make  up  at  the  office." 

"He  doesn't  spend  much  time  with  you." 

"He  has  n't  much  time  to  spend." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"It  seems  too  bad  that  two  married  people 
can't  be  more  comfortable  together,"  I  said; 
"it's  kind  of  discouraging  to  the  young  to  see 
matrimony  so  kind  of  discounted." 

"Your  father  and  I  don't  discount  matri- 
mony," Mother  said;  "we've  been  married  a 
good  many  years,  and  we  understand  one  an- 
other." 

"But  Father  goes  his  way,  and  you  go 
yours,"  I  said. 

"Life  is  very  complicated,"  Mother  ad- 
mitted, "and  it  gets  more  so  as  you  grow 
older." 

"It  ought  not  to,  Mother;  you  know  it 
ought  not  to." 

"I  suppose  I  seem  old  to  you,"  Mother  said, 
pursuing  her  own  train  of  thought,  "but  I 
don't  seem  very  old  to  myself,  or  —  or  to  my 
friends." 

"You  look  very  young,"  I  said,  "even  to 
my  critical  gaze.  Carrington  Chase  says  you 
are  the  youngest-looking  woman  of  your  age 
that  he  ever  saw.  Not  that  he  knows  it,"  I 
added  hastily. 

"When  my  mother  was  my  age  I  used  to 
think  of  her  as  a  very  mature  woman,"  Mother 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      113 

said,  "a  long  way  from  the  romance  of  youth, 
but  I  suppose  she  was  n't,  any  more  than  I 
am." 

"Did  she  have  gentlemen  friends?"  I  said. 

Mother  hardly  ever  hears  any  question 
that 's  addressed  to  her,  and  she  did  n't  hear 
this  one. 

"I  suppose  my  trouble  is,"  she  mused, 
"that  I  am  miscast  in  life.  I  am  not  playing 
the  r6le  for  which  nature  intended  me." 

"Ellery  told  —  I  mean,  says  that,"  I  said; 
"do  you  think  he  knows?" 

"I  think  he  knows  me  as  well  as  any  one," 
Mother  said,  quite  unaware  of  the  inappro- 
priateness  of  telling  me  so. 

"He  thinks  you  need  a  salon  for  a  back- 
ground." 

"I  know  he  does,"  Mother  said  fondly. 

"What  do  you  think  Father  needs  for  his 
background?" 

"Men  are  different,"  Mother  said;  "their 
needs  are  more  material.  I  try  to  attend  to 
all  of  your  Father's  material  wants.  I  don't 
think  I  fail  in  my  duty  to  him.  He  cares  less 
and  less  for  my  society,  you  must  remember 
that,  dear." 


114      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Mother,"  I  said,  "why  don't  you  do  some- 
thing about  it?" 

She  turned  on  me  a  look  of  such  dewy  in- 
nocence that  I  was  nonplussed. 

"What  is  there  to  do  about  it,  dear?"  she 
asked. 

What,  indeed? 

The  next  thing  I  did  was  to  tackle  Ellery. 
It  seems  very  simple  to  get  right  at  the  root 
of  a  matter  like  this,  but  when  you  come  to 
examine  it  you  find  out  that  it  is  n't.  As 
Browning  says,  it 's  an  awkward  thing  to  play 
with  souls. 

"Ellery,"  I  said,  "I  don't  think  Mother  is 
in  a  very  good  state,  do  you?" 

"Do  you  mean  headaches?"  Ellery  asked 
anxiously. 

"No,  she  is  n't  having  many  of  those,  but 
you  know  how  lackadaisical  she  gets  some- 
times. Well,  I  think  she's  getting  more  and 
more  so." 

"Lackadaisical?"  said  Ellery. 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  good  idea  for  her  to 
follow  the  line  of  least  resistance  the  way  she 
does." 

"The  line  of  least  resistance?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      115 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  don't  suppose  I  can  tell 
you  very  much  about  Mother  that  you  don't 
know,  but  she  seems  to  me  to  be  softening 
down  considerably." 

"You  don't  mean  muscularly?" 

"If  you  consider  the  soul  to  have  any 
muscles,  I  do." 

"You  mean  that  she  is  —  spiritually  —  er 
—  er—  " 

"Out  of  condition,"  I  said. 

Ellery  looked  perfectly  miserable. 

"Did  you  have  some  special  object  in  talk- 
ing to  me  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,  I  can't  talk  to  any  one  else.  I  thought 
I'd  like  to  see  what  you  thought,  anyway. 
Besides,  Mother's  interested  in  you,  and  she 
is  n't  interested  in  me,  so  you  might  do  her 
some  good." 

"She  says  you  are  a  terrible  child,"  he  said, 
with  that  kind  of  worried  smile  that  is  his  near- 
est approach  to  a  sense  of  humor.  "In  what 
way  did  you  think  I  might  do  her  some  good?  " 

"By  leaving  her  alone,"  I  said  stoutly. 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  Ellery  said  unex- 
pectedly; "but  she  hasn't  got  anybody  but 
me." 


116      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"She's  got  us,"  I  said,  but  I  knew  what  he 
meant,  just  the  same. 

"  She 's  so  fine,"  he  said; "  she  needs  so  much." 

"So  does  Father,"  I  said. 

Ellery  wilted. 

"So  do  I,"  I  said;  "she  ought  to  look  out  for 
me,  and  she  does  n't." 

"She's  an  ideal  mother,"  Ellery  said  hotly. 

"Ideal,  but  not  real,"  I  said;  "it  is  n't  only 
rice  pudding  that  a  young  girl  needs." 

"She'll  never  leave  you,  you  know,"  Ellery 
said;  "she  would  n't  even  stay  away  from  you 
for  a  single  meal." 

"She  did  the  night  that  Father  was  taken 
sick,"  I  said,  "and  now  it  does  n't  make  any 
difference." 

"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do?"  said 
Ellery  miserably. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said;  "just  step  out  till 
she  gets  her  bearings  or  something." 

"She  won't  let  me,"  Ellery  blurted  out; 
"she  doesn't  like  it  if  I  don't  come.  I've 
been  coming  so  many  years." 

"Don't  you  think  that  you  and  Mother 
come  under  the  general  head  of  philandering?" 
I  said. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      117 

"Not  that,"  Ellery  said  briefly;  "I  don't 
suppose  you  can  understand  my  devotion  to 
your  mother." 

"I  can,  but  I  can't  understand  her  devo- 
tion to  you." 

"Oh!  "Ellery  said,  "oh!" 

"She  ought  to  have  gone  to  Canada  with 
Father." 

Ellery  won't  talk  about  Father. 

"Your  mother  is  so  rare,"  Ellery  said;  "you 
can't  judge  her  by  ordinary  standards." 

"But  there  are  n't  any  others." 

"I  want  everything  that's  beautiful  and 
good  for  her,"  Ellery  said. 

"I  know,"  I  said;  "Beauty.  I  want  it,  too, 
but  just  practically  how  are  you  going  to  give 
it  to  her  with  things  mixed  up  the  way  they 
are?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ellery. 

He  feels  about  Mother  the  way  I  do  about 
Carrington.  He  wants  to  give  her  everything 
that  I  want  Carrington  to  give  me.  I  don't 
exactly  know  what  I  mean,  but  Carrington's 
friendship  is  the  one  thing  that  solves  all  my 
problems,  and  makes  life  seem  like  a  wonder- 
ful thing  to  me.  If  this  is  the  case  with  Mother, 


118      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

what  can  I  say?  What  I  want  is  for  Mother  to 
tell  me  how  she  connects  it  all  up,  instead  of 
my  trying  to  figure  her  out  like  a  little  Miss 
Fixit.  Nothing  much  can  be  fixed,  anyway,  I 
suppose. 

I  knew  Stella  did  n't  have  any  point  of  view 
on  it  that  would  seem  rational  to  me,  but  be- 
ing a  naturally  thorough  person,  I  did  n't  rest 
until  I  had  sounded  her  out  also. 

"Stella,"  I  said,  "don't  you  think  that 
Mother  and  Father  are  drifting  apart?" 

"I  had  n't  thought  about  it,"  Stella  said. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  would  think  about  it, 
and  tell  me  what  you  think." 

"Of  course,  they  have  no  common  mental 
interests,"  Stella  said;  "they  married  on  the 
old  basis,  ignorant  of  the  episodic  nature  of 
love." 

"Do  you  regard  Cosgrove  as  an  episode?" 
I  said. 

"  Cosgrove  and  I  are  mated  mentally  as  well 
as  physically." 

"Well,  supposing  you  weren't.  Supposing 
after  you  got  all  mated  you  found  out  that 
your  common  mental  interests  were  waning, 
what  then?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      119 

"Why,  then,  we  should  dissolve  our  part- 
nership." 

"Get  divorced,  you  mean?" 

"Yes;  we  married  with  that  understanding." 

"But  what  about  your  offspring?" 

"Our  children  will  be  individuals  just  as  we 
are  individuals,  with  the  individual  right  to 
follow  out  their  own  development." 

"It  might  be  hard  on  them,"  I  said;  "chil- 
dren need  moral  and  mental  support." 

"I  never  did,"  said  Stella. 

"Don't  you  believe  in  families  at  all?" 

"I  believe  in  communities,"  Stella  said. 

"There  have  been  a  good  many  centuries 
of  families,"  I  said;  "do  you  really  think  it 
would  be  a  good  idea  to  abolish  them  now?" 

"The  family  as  an  institution  is  abolishing 
itself." 

"Our  family  seems  to  be,"  I  said. 

Stella's  inconsistency  in  staying  at  home 
with  us  so  as  not  to  set  up  an  absolute  institu- 
tion of  her  own  struck  me  afresh,  but  nothing 
would  make  her  see  it  that  way.  Her  idea  is  to 
shed  your  offspring  the  way  a  tree  sheds  its 
leaves,  I  suppose,  in  the  middle  of  a  commu- 
nity. 


120      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Ellery  and  Mother  have  common  mental 
interests  in  a  way,"  I  said;  "I  wish  they 
did  n't." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  Stella,  "you 
don't  object  to  that,  I  hope !  You  don't  ques- 
tion the  right  of  the  individual  to  choose  his 
associates?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  married  women  being 
too  much  occupied  with  detached  men,"  I  said. 
"I  want  Mother  to  look  out  for  Father  instead 
of  Ellerying  around  all  over  the  place  all  the 
time." 

"Don't  be  morbid,"  Stella  said;  "that  kind 
of  an  attitude  is  pernicious.  It's  a  relic  of 
the  dark  ages.  You  would  n't  interfere  with 
Mother's  freedom  in  the  choice  of  friends, 
would  you?" 

"But  it's  all  wrong,"  I  said;  "things  ought 
not  to  be  that  way." 

I  don't  know  that  Stella's  burst  of  silvery, 
ringing  laughter  helped  me  much,  but  I  can't 
blame  her.  She  does  n't  know  that  anybody 
wants  to  be  helped,  ever.  She's  like  a  gold- 
fish swimming  in  a  bowl. 

As  much  as  I  could  communicate  to  Car- 
rington  of  all  this,  I  did.  His  point  of  view  on 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      121 

marriage  is  characteristic,  but  real  like  all  the 
other  things  he  thinks.  It's  such  a  change  to 
go  from  him  to  Stella,  who  is  "as  passionless 
as  a  bit  of  glass."  I  quote  Carrington.  He 
believes  that  people  should  not  marry  until 
they  see  their  way  clear  to  setting  up  a  de- 
cent regular  establishment,  and  then  only  if 
the  impulse  to  do  so  is  irresistible.  In  other 
words,  he  believes  in  love,  but  he  does  n't 
think  you  ought  to  let  it  hamper  you.  I  think 
that  is  perfectly  fair,  and  I  agree  with  him. 
He  won't  be  able  to  marry  for  some  time  yet, 
I  suppose.  Meantime,  I  am  the  best  woman 
friend  he  has. 

"Still  bothering  about  the  rights  and  wrongs 
of  things,  aren't  you?"  he  said;  "you  can't 
rearrange  the  universe,  dear." 

"You  know  I  don't  want  to  rearrange  the 
universe,"  I  said.  "I  just  want  to  know  what 
to  think  of  this  particular  instance." 

"  Why  do  you  have  to  think  anything  at  all  ?  " 
"I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  "but  I  do." 
"You  want  to  hold  your  mother  and  father 
together.  To  prevent  a  scandal?" 

"There's  no  question  of  that,"  I  said 
quickly. 


122      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"People  will  talk,  though  I  don't  know  what 
people.  You  have  n't  a  circle  that  you  have  to 
be  afraid  of,  not  being  society  people." 

Well,  of  course,  we  're  not  society  people. 

"No,"  I  said. 

"Why  do  you  bother?  Your  mother  and 
Mr.  Howe  may  have  a  very  beautiful  friend- 
ship." 

"Oh!  they  have,"  I  said;  "I  just  want  to 
know  what  to  do,  and  what  to  think." 

"There  are  certain  obligations  of  civilized 
life,"  he  said;  "the  question  is  always  just  how 
civilized  the  life  is.  I  'd  just  let  the  show  go  on, 
if  I  were  you." 

"I  suppose  I '11  have  to,"  I  said,  " but  do  you 
think  I  ought  to?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  help  yourself  in 
any  case." 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?"  I  said  quickly. 

"You,"  he  said. 

"Why  at  me?" 

"It's  an  amusing  situation,  that's  all." 

"I  can't  decide  what  things  mean,"  I  said, 
"and  that  always  makes  me  miserable." 

"  Don't  be  miserable.  Be  happy.  All  that  life 
is  worth  is  the  happiness  you  can  get  out  of  it." 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      123 

"But  without  injuring  anybody  else,"  I 
said.  The  idea  was  not  original. 

We  were  sitting  in  the  dug-out,  so  he  put  his 
arms  around  me  and  I  rested  my  head  on  his 
shoulder  as  the  family  were  mercifully  out. 
Suddenly  I  felt  as  if  the  whole  world  were  dis- 
solving right  before  my  eyes.  I  usually  get  so 
much  inspiration  from  him,  and  whenever  I 
am  touching  him  I  feel  so  safe.  This  time  I  be- 
gan to  feel  farther  and  farther  away  from  him, 
and  I  knew  if  I  could  n't  feel  that  he  was  really 
near  me,  and  really  understanding  me,  that  I 
would  not  be  able  to  bear  it. 

"Are  you  happy  now?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  tell  me  what  to  think." 

"Don't  think." 

"I  must,"  I  said. 

He  only  smiled,  but  I  felt  closer  to  him. 

"It's  all  right,  is  n't  it,"  I  said,  "about  my 
family?  We  are  n't  all  drifting  into  chaos  or 
anything?" 

He  smiled  again. 

"Kiss  me,"  I  said,  "kiss  me." 

I  could  n't  bear  being  alone  any  longer. 


CHAPTER  IX 

STELLA  was  going  to  the  hospital  to  have  her 
neatly  arranged  baby  according  to  scientific 
schedule,  but  the  stork  anticipated  her.  Cos- 
grove,  Jr.,  arrived  in  our  apartment  one  bliz- 
zardy  evening  in  early  February,  and  I  know 
a  good  deal  more  about  life  now  than  I  did 
even  the  evening  previous  to  that  event. 

I  sat  at  the  telephone  and  telephoned  im- 
partially for  doctors  and  nurses  and  taxicabs. 
Later  I  tried  to  get  an  ambulance,  but  I 
could  n't.  The  streets  of  New  York  have  been 
practically  impassable  for  weeks,  the  snow  has 
been  piled  so  high.  So  Cosgrove,  Jr.,  decided 
not  to  wait  until  these  practical  difficulties 
were  overcome,  but  joined  the  family  group 
in  our  already  overcrowded  apartment. 

My  first  instinct  was  to  drive  Bobby  out  into 
the  night,  blizzard  or  no  blizzard,  influenza  or 
not,  but  I  thought  better  of  that,  and  took 
him  off  into  his  own  room  and  stuffed  cotton 
into  his  ears.  The  house  was  full  of  Cosgrove 
and  Father,  and  three  of  the  doctors  I  had 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      125 

telephoned  for,  as  well  as  a  nurse  or  two,  and 
Stella.  Ellery  we  sent  away. 

Mother  was  fine.  I  sometimes  forget  that 
she  once  had  Stella  and  me  and  Bobby,  but 
we  all  remembered  it  that  night.  She  knew 
exactly  what  to  do.  Cosgrove  was  scared  stiff, 
and  Father  walked  him  up  and  down  the  out- 
side corridor  and  told  him  stories,  just  like  any 
nice  avuncular  kind  of  person  might  have  done. 
*  "Do  you  feel  sick,  Bobby?"  I  asked  him,  as 
the  evening  progressed  and  he  got  whiter  and 
whiter. 

"No,  I  feel  all  right." 

"It's  most  over,"  I  said. 

He  began  to  cry  after  a  while. 

"Don't  you  worry,  Bobby;  Mother  says  it 
is  n't  as  bad  as  it  seems  to  us." 

"I  ate  so  much  of  that  lemon  pie,"  Bobby 
said,  "I  guess  it  was  n't  good  for  me." 

I  put  my  arm  around  him. 

"I  guess  I'm  going  to  be  sick,"  he  said,  and 
he  was  —  a  little. 

"Look  here,  Bobby,"  I  said,  to  get  his  mind 
off  himself,  "I'm  the  one  that  ought  to  mind 
the  most.  You  are  going  to  grow  up  to  be  a 
man,  and  it's  only  women  — •" 


126      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"  You'd  better  not  get  married,"  Bobby  said. 

"Most  every  one  does,"  I  said. 

"Foolish,  then." 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  "how  did  you  get  into 
this  world?  If  people  did  n't  get  married,  you 
know,  we  should  n't  be  here." 

"Well,"  Bobby  said,  "I'm  never  going  to 
get  married,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Bobby,  you  ought  to  have  a  course  in 
hygiene.  If  I  had  a  chart,  and  we  were  both 
the  same  sex,  I  could  give  it  to  you." 

"Well,  you  could  n't,"  Bobby  said. 

I  closed  my  eyes,  and  listened  to  all  the 
noises  there  were.  Stella  was  the  most  pen- 
etrating. 

"Put  that  cotton  back  in  your  ears,"  I  told 
Bobby. 

"You're  sick  yourself,"  Bobby  said;  "do 
you  feel  as  if  you  were  going  to  be  sick?" 

I  did,  but  I  did  n't  tell  him  so. 

He  rubbed  my  head  and  let  me  kiss  him  two 
or  three  times.  I  thought  of  everybody  in  the 
world  that  I  knew,  excepting  Carrington.  I 
postponed  him  because  it  was  n't  a  matter  of 
actual  mental  help  I  needed;  it  was  only  an 
endurance  test. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      127 

"I  hear  a  goose  quacking,"  Bobby  said 
later. 

"Ducks  quack,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  ducks,  then.  Don't  you  hear  them? " 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said.  It  was  an  awfully 
funny  sound. 

"Do  you  suppose  it's  one  that  Cosgrove  has 
got  Stella  for  a  present?"  Bobby  said. 

"  Come  away  from  that  door,  Bobby." 

"If  it's  a  duck  I  want  to  see  it." 

A  great  light  broke  over  me. 

"Well,  it  isn't  a  duck,"  I  said;  "it's  a 
member  of  the  human  species." 

"Not  the  baby!"  Bobby  said,  disappointed. 

"Yes,  the  baby." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  it,  then." 

Cosgrove  and  Father  broke  the  glad  news  to 
us. 

"It  was  only  two  hours,"  Cosgrove  said; 
"it  was  like  Stella  to  have  a  phenomenally 
easy  time." 

Well,  if  she  had  had  a  hard  time  I  think  I 
should  have  lost  a  really  valuable  little  brother, 
to  say  nothing  of  a  year's  growth  and  the  use  of 
a  fairly  adequate  mentality.  Knowing  all  about 
a  thing,  as  I  did  after  all  my  hygiene  and  the 


128      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

reading  of  Stella's  literature  on  the  subject, 
is  n't  the  same  as  knouring.  I  am  certainly  an 
older  and  wiser  woman.  So  is  Bobby,  so  to 
speak. 

I  never  cared  for  little  squalling  babies  very 
much  until  Stella  had  this  one.  I  used  to  like 
little  puppies,  or  even  pigs,  much  better.  Ba- 
bies always  seemed  to  be  so  unnecessarily  un- 
developed, but  Squidgins  —  with  apologies  to 
nobody,  because  that 's  my  name  for  him  — 
is  a  very  superior  specimen.  He 's  been  a  per- 
son from  the  very  beginning,  with  a  wavy 
pompadour  and  large  blue  wicked-looking 
eyes.  The  first  time  he  opened  them  on  me  I 
nearly  dropped  him.  He  seemed  to  know  so 
much  that  put  me  entirely  in  the  wrong.  It's 
the  Romany  gypsy  look  he  has  that  especially 
appeals  to  me.  Anyhow,  I  winked  back  and 
we  were  friends  from  that  instant.  I  don't  get 
much  chance  at  him,  of  course,  but  there  are 
scientific  interims  when  he  has  to  be  held  while 
the  nurse  is  sterilizing  something  or  somebody, 
that  make  it  very  pleasant  for  an  interested 
aunt.  By  the  way,  I  don't  see  why  uncles  have 
an  adjective  and  aunts  have  n't. 

At  first,  I  could  n't  pick  him  up  without  the 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      129 

most  disastrous  results.  A  small  baby  has  to 
be  handled  like  a  frog  with  a  broken  back.  If 
you  don't  look  sharp  they'll  wiggle  through 
your  fingers,  and  if  you  don't  hold  on  to  their 
heads  they  are  likely  to  fall  off.  Also  there  is  a 
soft  spot  on  top  to  be  reckoned  with.  It  hard- 
ens up  in  time,  but  it  has  to  be  scrupulously 
avoided  while  they  are  new.  I  say  to  him : 

"Squidgins,  you  are  very  little, 
And  your  bones  are  very  brittle," 

and  he  always  smiles.  Of  course,  they  tell  you 
that  those  smiles  are  merely  digestional  gri- 
maces, but  it  seems  curious  to  me  that  they 
always  have  a  digestional  response  ready  at  a 
given  time. 

When  I  am  very  restless,  and  the  back  of 
my  neck  aches  from  too  much  conjecturing 
about  the  universe,  or  wondering  why  Carring- 
ton  does  n't  telephone  of tener  —  he  does  n't 
need  to  see  me  half  as  often  as  I  need  him,  but 
I  suppose  that's  because  I  need  him  of  tener 
and  of  tener  —  why,  getting  Squidgins  cuddled 
up  under  my  chin  is  quite  a  panacea.  He 
seems  very  warm  and  soft  —  and  mine.  It 's 
funny  how  a  little  fragment  of  a  baby  like  that 


130      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

can  seem  to  belong  to  you,  especially  when  it 
does  n't. 

Stella  regards  him  with  an  interest  not  un- 
mixed with  surprise.  After  all,  he  is  n't  a 
little  goldfish  swimming  in  a  bowl,  nor  a  Bol- 
shevist, nor  even  a  reasonable  human  being 
like  herself.  He 's  something  undreamed  of  in 
her  philosophy  —  a  baby,  a  real  live  kicking 
baby.  I  should  think  she  would  be  wondering 
herself  crazy  about  this  remarkable  fact. 

He  certainly  does  n't  make  family  life  any 
more  complicated.  I  brought  him  out  the 
other  night  just  after  we  were  through  dinner, 
and  went  the  rounds  exhibiting  him.  Father 
and  Mother  got  together  over  him  with  quite 
a  little  do-you-remember  stun7  that  I  'd  never 
even  heard  before.  It  seems  that  when  Stella 
was  born  they  were  so  young  that  they  knew 
practically  nothing  about  what  to  do  with  her, 
and  had  all  kinds  of  experiences  trying  to 
cover  up  their  ignorance. 

"Robert  disowned  her  once,"  Mother  said; 
"we  were  going  down  to  the  beach  for  the  sum- 
mer, and  she  cried  so  much  on  the  train  that 
he  was  ashamed  of  her,  so  he  said  in  hearing  of 
all  the  passengers  that  he  hoped  my  husband 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      131 

would  be  there  to  meet  me  when  the  train  got 
in." 

"Your  mother  got  even  with  me,  though," 
Father  said;  "she  told  me  that  she  hoped 
they  'd  let  my  wife  out  of  the  asylum  before 
long." 

"That  created  a  real  sensation,"  Mother 
said,  and  they  both  laughed. 

"He  does  n't  look  like  Stella,"  Father  said. 
"Stella  was  the  calmest  baby  that  ever  lived." 

"Except  when  we  traveled  with  her," 
Mother  put  in. 

"He  looks  more  like  Bobby,"  Father  de- 
cided. 

Bobby  came  over  to  see  about  this,  but  did 
n't  feel  very  flattered  at  the  comparison. 

"  Gee,  I  bet  I  was  never  as  red  as  that,"  he 
said. 

"You  were  the  reddest  baby  I  ever  saw," 
Mother  said;  "you  were  a  regular  little  In- 
dian." 

"I'd  rather  look  like  a  red  Indian  than  an 
old  man." 

"Squidgins  does  n't  look  like  an  old  man," 
I  said. 

"He  does,  too!" 


132      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"He  does  not!" 

"Well,  if  I  could  get  an  old  man,  and  have 
him  here,  you  'd  see." 

"Luckily,  you  can't,"  I  said;  "  wedon't  want 
any  nasty  germy  old  men  around  Squidgins." 

"Well,  if  I  could  get  one  I'd  show  you," 
said  Bobby  foolishly.  "Look  at  him,  he  dou- 
bled up  his  little  fist  and  tried  to  pound  me. 
Take  him  away!" 

"The  next  thing  you  know  you'll  get  to  like 
him,  Bobby,"  I  said. 

"I  shan't  either." 

I  caught  Father  and  Mother  actually  ex- 
changing glances  over  this.  I  wish  they'd  be 
more  interested  in  Bobby.  There  are  ways  in 
which  he  is  almost  too  bright,  and  then  other 
ways  in  which  he  seems  actually  stupid.  Of 
course,  boy  nature  is  a  funny  thing.  Boys  take 
so  much  out  in  pretending  to  be  rough  and 
coarse  that  it's  hard  to  get  right  down  to  the 
root  of  them  and  decide  how  much  softening 
influence  to  exert. '.  I  don't  know  that  growing 
up  to  be  a  boy  is  fraught  with  as  many  un- 
certainties as  growing  up  to  be  a  girl  is,  but 
it's  certainly  a  more  cantankerous  process. 
Boys  resist  everything  that  girls  take  as  a 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      133 

matter  of  course.  I  yearn  and  hunger  for  a 
little  demonstrativeness  in  hours  of  need,  and 
Bobby  makes  a  big  effort  trying  to  avoid  any 
such  thing. 

Father  does  n't  spend  much  more  time  at 
home  than  he  did,  though.  I  had  rather  a  har- 
rowing encounter  with  him  the  other  night. 
I  went  to  the  Cafe  de  Boheme  with  Carrington 
quite  late,  when  Mother  thought  I  was  spend- 
ing the  night  at  the  Webster  girls'.  I  was,  of 
course,  but  not  anything  but  the  literal  night 
itself,  as  we  danced  till  nearly  half-past  one. 
I  am  a  smooth  dancer,  if  I  do  say  it  myself, 
smooth  and  sensitive  to  the  inclinations  of  my 
partner.  Carrington  does  n't  need  so  much  as 
the  littlest  pressure  of  his  hand  to  lead  me.  I 
know  what  he  is  going  to  do  as  well  as  he  knows 
it  himself. 

As  soon  as  we  got  inside  of  the  place  I  saw 
that  Father  was  there  with  a  lady,  one  of 
the  earringed  variety.  We  were  a  little  before 
the  theater  crowd  —  we'd  been  to  a  movie  — 
and  the  place  was  practically  deserted.  You 
could  n't  just  bow  to  your  own  father  when 
he  was  one  of  the  only  other  two  couples  in  the 
room,  and  pretend  you  had  practically  never 


134      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

seen  him  before.  So  Carrington  and  I  reluc- 
tantly sailed  up  to  him,  and  he  reluctantly  re- 
minded me  that  I  had  met  Mrs.  Van  der  Water, 
and  we  all  ordered  ginger  ale  and  club  sand- 
wiches, and  talked  a  lot  of  feverish  small  talk 
to  hide  our  embarrassment  and  general  cha- 
grin. I  was  glad  to  have  Father  and  Carring- 
ton meet,  but  that  was  the  only  ray  of  light  in 
the  situation. 

Mrs.  Van  der  Water  shook  her  gory  ear- 
rings at  Carrington,  and  smiled  at  me. 

"So  this  is  the  little  daughter,"  she  said,  not 
meaning  to  accomplish  so  much  unpleasant- 
ness of  tone. 

"  I  'm  still  growing,'*  I  said,  "  though  I  never 
can  make  Father  believe  it.  Do  you  like  to 
dance?" 

"I  enjoy  looking  on  better." 

"When  the  music  begins  perhaps  you'll  try 
it  with  me,"  Carrington  said. 

"If  Mr.  Blair  does  n't  mind." 

"Oh!  I  don't  mind,"  Father  said;  "I  was 
lucky  enough  to  run  into  Mrs.  Van  der  Water 
at  the  Astor  after  dinner  to-night,  and  she 
kindly  consented  to  —  er  —  come  across  the 
street  for  a  bite  to  eat.  At  a  business  dinner  I 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      135 

never  get  enough  to  eat.  Talking  business  is 
hungry  work." 

Father  was  never  so  apologetic  before. 

"Is  n't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Van  der  Water.  She 
does  her  hair  like  Valeska  Suratt,  combed 
straight  back  like  painted  hair,  and  her  eyes 
are  smudged  with  natural  brownish  shadows. 
She  was  wearing  a  blue  charmeuse  trimmed 
with  lemon  color.  I  always  hate  women  that 
wear  lemon  color.  She  had  left  her  wrap  with 
the  coat  girl.  I  wondered  if  it  was  the  same 
imitation  moleskin  she  had  on  the  first  time  I 
saw  her  that  night  she  and  Father  were  with 
Jimmie  Greer  at  the  La  France. 

Garrington  played  up  to  her  the  way  he 
does  to  the  Webster  girls,  only  he  treated  her 
as  if  she  were  a  stage  beauty  or  something.  He 
paid  her  every  little  attention  there  is,  watch- 
ing her  glass  to  see  if  it  was  empty,  lighting  her 
cigarette  for  her  and  all  that.  He  has  beautiful 
manners  —  even  when  we  are  alone  together 
he  does  n't  forget  the  little  courtesies  that 
make  life  so  very  much  more  pleasant.  When 
they  got  up  to  dance  Father  stared  after  them 
gloomily,  and  so  did  I,  too,  I  suppose.  They 
seemed  to  hit  it  off  so  awfully  well. 


136      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"So  that's  your  young  man,  is  it?"  Father 
said. 

"Yes;  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"I  don't  think  very  much  of  him." 

"Oh!  "I  said. 

"  Oh !  I  suppose  he 's  all  right.  Where 's  that 
young  Tommy  Nevers  you  used  to  see  so  much 
of?" 

"I  still  see  him,"  I  said;  "he  seems  so  much 
more  childish  than  Carrington." 

"Carrington  is  certainly  not  childish,"  he 
said. 

"Mrs.  Van  der  Water  is  a  very  striking- 
looking  woman,  is  n't  she?  " 

"I  suppose  so." 

"She  is,  if  you  admire  that  type,  but  Mo- 
ther is  so  wonderful-looking  that  I'm  preju- 
diced in  favor  of  blondes." 

Father  answered  with  a  snort  of  annoyance. 

"We're  going  after  this  dance,"  he  said, 
"you'd  better  get  home  early  yourself." 

"I'm  not  going  home,"  I  said;  "I  'm  going  to 
the  Websters'." 

"Do  they  know  who  you  are  out  with?" 

"Yes." 

Carrington  sailed  by  with  his  chin  over  Mrs. 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      137 

Van  der  Water's  shoulder.  She  smells  so  much 
of  Mary  Garden  talcum  powder  the  effect 
could  n't  have  been  altogether  gratifying. 

"He's  got  a  fishy  eye,"  Father  said;  but 
Father  can't  dance  very  well,  and  might  have 
been  a  little  jaundiced  by  the  fact. 

Carrington  and  I  sat  and  watched  them  go 
out.  Father  was  scowling  as  he  stood  by  the 
swinging  door  with  his  hat  and  stick  in  his 
hand. 

"He's  a  fine-looking  man,"  Carrington  said; 
"look  at  the  fur  wrap  on  the  lady." 

Mrs.  Van  der  Water  was  sporting  a  Hudson 
seal  coat  with  a  deep  shawl  collar  of  beaver. 
It  was  certainly  a  wonderful-looking  garment. 

"That  coat,"  I  said  — "why,  it  couldn't 
be—" 

Carrington  smiled. 

"You  think  it  is,"  I  said. 

"Oh!  well,"  Carrington  said,  "don't  be  too 
hard  on  him.  Your  mother  would  n't  have  it, 
you  know." 

"I  wish  you  had  n't  called  my  attention  to 
it,"  I  said. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't.  I  did  n't  think.  I  was  so 
impressed  by  it." 


138      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Father  never  lied  to  me  before,"  I  said. 

"He  wouldn't  have  lied  to  you  this  time 
if  you  had  n't  .caught  him  red-handed.  He 's 
very  fond  of  you." 

"He's  fond  of  me,  but  I  bore  him,  too." 

"Well,  you  don't  bore  me,"  Carrington  said. 

But  when  I  cried  on  the  way  home  in  the 
taxicab,  he  made  up  for  his  seeming  callous- 
ness. He  kissed  away  my  tears  one  by  one. 

"Don't  mind,  little  girl,"  he  said,  "don't 
mind  anything.  Don't  you  know  how  dear  you 
are  becoming  to  me?  Don't  you  realize  that 
I  hate  to  see  you  grieve?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  I  do  know. 


CHAPTER  X 

"You'D  better  powder  up  your  nose,  darlin'," 
Delia  said;  "  there 's  a  perfectly  new  man  to  see 
you  in  the  parlor." 

"A  new  man  to  see  me?"  I  said;  "what  does 
he  look  like?" 

"He's  a  fine-looking  man,  honey,   a  big 
light-haired  man,  with  great  blue  eyes." 
"Did  he  ask  for  me?" 
"Yes,  he  asked  for  you,  honey." 
"Did  n't  he  give  you  his  name?" 
"He  gave  me  his  name,  but  I  forgot  it, 
darlin',  I  was  so  taken  up  just  looking  at  him." 
I  was  so  curious  to  see  who  it  could  be  that 
had  come  to  see  me  that  way,  without  even 
telephoning,  and  roused  Delia's  interest  to 
that  extent,  that  I  followed  her  right  into  the 
sitting-room  without  a  backward  look  at  the 
nose  she  made  so  much  a  point  of. 

Tony  Cowles  uncoiled  himself  from  the 
depths  of  the  wing  chair,  and  stood  smiling  at 
me  for  a  second  before  either  of  us  said  any- 
thing. 

"I  canvassed  this  neighborhood  for  a  tele- 


140      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

phone  booth,"  he  said,  "until  I  had  to  choose 
between  taking  my  chances  at  trying  to  find 
you  without  telephoning  or  using  my  last  free 
half -hour  to  get  you  on  the  wire." 

"I'm  glad  you  chose  coming,"  I  said,  wish- 
ing I  had  taken  Delia's  advice. 

"I  wanted  particularly  to  see  you  to-day," 
he  said,  "because  Prunella's  affairs  have  come 
to  the  point  where  they  won't  wait.  I  am 
bundling  Mrs.  Pemberton  off  to  a  sanatorium 
to-morrow,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  if  you 
can  join  Prunella  at  my  place  to-morrow  night. 
She's  not  going  out  of  town  because  Dr. 
Hueston  wants  to  keep  her  under  observation. 
She's  going  to  my  place  because  you'll  both 
be  more  comfortable  there  than  anywhere  else 
I  can  find  for  you." 

"But  we'll  be  turning  you  out,"  I  said. 

"I  can  go  to  the  club.  I'm  used  to  that.  I 
don't  mind  a  bit,  really." 

"It  will  be  great  fun,"  I  said. 

"You  think  you  can  arrange  it,  then?" 

"I  know  I  can.  I  talked  it  over  with  Mother 
when  you  first  spoke  of  it  —  that  is,  of  my 
being  with  Prunella  while  her  mother  was 
away." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      141 

"I  asked  for  Mrs.  Blair,  too." 

"She's  gone  to  a  concert,"  I  said;  "I'm 
sorry.  You  would  have  liked  seeing  Mother." 

"I  think  you'll  be  perfectly  comfortable. 
There 's  a  bed  and  a  day  bed  in  my  room,  and 
plenty  of  chests  and  bureau  drawers.  There's 
room  enough  for  three  men  to  store  away  their 
outfits,  so  I  imagine  two  girls  would  be  just 
about  able  to  squeeze  in.  Miranda  will  take 
care  of  you  nicely.  She's  a  funny  old  soul, 
older  than  the  maid  who  showed  me  in,  but  her 
general  appearance  is  very  much  like  her.  I 
think  you'll  get  on  with  her." 

"Delia  calls  me  darlin'  most  of  the  time,"  I 
said. 

"Miranda  will  be  following  her  example  very 
soon,  I  am  sure.  It's  settled,  then?  I  will  come 
for  you  at  about  half -past  five  and  you  will  be 
there  in  time  for  dinner." 

"Lovely,"  I  said. 

"I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about 
Prunella  sometime.  One  of  these  days  when 
she  is  taking  her  prescribed  nap  —  the  doctor 
is  putting  her  on  more  or  less  of  a  regime,  you 
know  —  we  '11  take  a  turn  about  the  park  and 
settle  her  affairs  for  her." 


142      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

''You're  awfully  good  to  her,"  I  said. 

"She  needs  her  friends,"  Tony  Cowles  said 
soberly. 

"I  think  girls  need  their  friends  oftener 
than  men  do.  I  mean  I  think  they  have  more 
troubles." 

"More  troubles?"  said  Tony  Cowles  en- 
couragingly. 

"I  mean  I  think  they  have  more  shocks,"  I 
said;  "they  don't  know  what  to  expect  of  the 
world  as  well  as  men  seem  to." 

"Meaning?"  said  Tony  Cowles. 

"Well,  men  know  what  things  are  likely  to 
happen  in  a  situation,"  I  said;  "girls  just  go 
right  on  thinking  that  things  that  happen  to 
other  people  are  n't  going  to  happen  to  them, 
that  people  they  believe  in  can't  really  do 
wrong,  and  then  when  they  find  out  they  get  a 
terrible  shock." 

"I  suppose  they  do." 

"Girls  know  there  are  horrid  things  in  the 
world,  but  they  don't  believe  them,  and  then 
when  they  have  to  it 's  almost  too  hard  to  bear." 

"I  had  a  little  sister,"  Tony  Cowles  said, 
"who  was  just  about  your  age,  your  age  and 
Prunella's.  She  died  two  years  ago." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      143 

"Did  she?"  I  said;  "perhaps  you  know 
more  about  girls,  then,  for  that  reason." 

"We  were  very  close.  She  used  to  say  she 
had  all  her  best  jokes  with  me.  That  counts  a 
good  deal,  you  know." 

"Did  she  tell  you  her  troubles,  too?" 

"When  she  had  any." 

"Did  she  have  a  father?" 

"Yes,  he's  still  living." 

"Was  he  a  young-looking  father?"  I  asked. 

"Not  so  very.  I  was  a  good  deal  older  than 
she.  They  were  very  good  friends,  though." 

I  was  ashamed  to  find  my  eyes  were  filling 
with  tears. 

"I  Ve  had  some  trouble,"  I  said,  "and  some- 
times when  I  think  of  it  I  get  a  little  upset." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Tony  Cowles,  which 
was,  of  course,  just  exactly  what  I  wanted  him 
to  say. 

"It  was  n't  anything  but  a  shock,"  I  said; 
"I  suppose  every  one  has  them." 

"I've  got  a  nice  big  handkerchief,"  said 
Tony  Cowles,  as  he  began  to  realize  that  I 
did  n't  have  any. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  and  began  to  smile 
and  not  need  it  so  much. 


144      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"How  is  the  young  man  who  thinks  it's  so 
refreshing  to  be  out  in  the  fresh  air?"  he  in- 
quired presently. 

"Very  well,"  I  said. 

"  He  amuses  Prunella,  so  we  must  have  him 
around  while  she's  visiting  me." 

"He'll  love  to  come,"  I  said;  "he  thought 
you  had  a  very  nice  mind." 

"A  nice  mind!"  said  Tony  Cowles;  "well, 
that  is  n't  the  way  I  should  have  described  it 
myself." 

"Is  n't  it  nice?"  I  asked  saucily. 

"Probably,  but  'nice'  isn't  my  favorite 
adjective,  exactly." 

"It  is  n't  mine,"  I  said.  "I  have  n't  any  fa- 
vorite adjective,  but  I  have  a  favorite  noun." 

"Have  you?" 

" It 's — '  beauty,' "  I  said.  "I  don't  mean  art 
or  anything  like  that  by  it.  Well,  I  just  mean 
—  beauty,  that's  all." 

"That's  enough,"  said  Tony  Cowles  so- 
berly. 

We  shook  hands  at  parting,  and  I  stared  at 
the  clear  blondness  of  his  hair,  which  he  wears 
sleeked  down  to  his  head  in  a  way  that  almost 
disguises  its  fine  texture.  Someway  it  makes 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      145 

his  head  look  very  dependable.  It  turned  out 
that  a  dependable  head  to  remember  was  the 
one  thing  that  could  have  been  any  help  to 
me.  I  thought  I  had  suffered  about  Father, 
but  my  suffering  about  that  still  left  me  a 
world  to  live  in.  I  have  n't  had  one  since  I 
went  to  dinner  with  Carrington  that  night. 
All  the  time  I  was  planning  to  go  and  visit  with 
Prunella  I  was  hugging  the  idea  of  that  dinner 
to  my  breast.  Poor  old  breast,  it  did  n't  know 
what  it  was  in  for,  but  it  knows  now.  It  will 
always  know  the  same  thing. 

I  never  had  dinner  with  Carrington  before. 
I  had  met  him  after  dinner  and  danced  or 
gone  to  tea  with  him,  but  we  had  never  met 
and  gone  through  the  regular  schedule  of  four 
courses  and  a  demitasse,  and,  of  course,  the 
idea  excited  me.  It  is  a  good  deal  more  grown- 
up to  go  out  to  dinner  with  your  men  friends 
than  just  to  meet  and  dance  with  them,  and  a 
lot  more  exciting  some  way.  We  went  to  a  very 
stunning  place,  too,  the  Butterfly  Grill,  which 
is  the  downstairs  of  the  Butterfly  Restaurant, 
and  has  squashed  butterflies  all  over  its  walls, 
and  little  stalls  to  sit  in,  and  a  peacock  blue 
velour  carpet  among  its  attractions. 


146      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

We  began  with  grapefruit  with  a  cherry  in 
it,  and  then  we  had  sweetbreads  and  grilled 
sweet  potatoes,  and  a  course  of  artichokes  all 
by  themselves  instead  of  a  salad,  —  I  do  love 
Hollandaise  sauce,  —  and  then  we  had  ices 
and  coffee,  strawberry  ice  cream,  to  be  exact. 
The  dinner  part  of  it  was  all  lovely,  but  after 
dinner  we  had  our  fatal  conversation.  Nobody 
ever  told  me,  and  I  never  read  anything  about 
it  in  any  book,  that  you  could  sit  looking 
across  a  table  at  a  person  you  loved  best  in  all 
the  world,  and  be  absolutely  stabbed  by  a  few 
low-spoken  words  from  him.  I  did  n't  know  it 
was  possible  at  one  moment  to  be  alive,  and 
believing  one  thing  about  a  person  with  all 
your  heart  and  soul,  and  the  next  moment  to 
be  practically  dead,  and  not  believing  in  any- 
thing any  more.  It  does  n't  make  any  differ- 
ence to  me  now  what  ideas  I  have  about  the 
universe,  I  don't  think  there  is  any  such  thing 
as  beauty.  Oh!  I'm  sure  there  is  n't. 

I  began  talking  about  Father  a  little.  I 
kept  asking  Carrington  things  about  it  just  so 
I  could  get  a  point  of  view  on  it. 

"Mrs.  Van  der  Water  is  typical,"  Carring- 
ton said;  "she's  neither  better  nor  worse  than 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      147 

her  kind.  Your  father  is  probably  able  to  take 
care  of  himself.  She  '11  bleed  him  as  long  as  she 
can,  and  then  she'll  look  elsewhere,  that's  all." 

"You  can't  imagine  how  queer  it  makes 
you  feel  when  it's  your  own  father,"  I  said. 

"I  never  cared  what  my  father  did,"  Car- 
rington  said;  "he  was  an  old  rake." 

"Did  you  ever  find  out  anything  like  this 
about  him?"  I  asked. 

"Oh!  yes." 

"Did  n't  you  mind?" 

"I  don't  remember  minding." 

"  Somehow  I  'd  feel  better  about  everything 
if  it  was  n't  for  Ellery,"  I  said. 

"A  very  harmless  member  of  the  human 
family." 

"But  harmful  in  his  effect,"  I  said.  "If 
Mother  would  only  not  be  so  interested  in 
him,  she  might  do  something  about  Father." 

"The  modern  daughter,"  Carrington  said, 
"intellectualizing  about  the  sex  affairs  of  her 
parents." 

"But  Mother  and  Ellery  have  n't  anything 
to  do  with  sex,"  I  said,  "not  really.  They're 
just  philandering." 

"What  is  philandering?" 


148      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"You  talk  like  Stella,"  I  said. 

"  You  don't,"  he  said;  "you've  heard  every- 
thing in  the  world  discussed.  You  must  n't 
pretend  your  eyes  are  shut." 

"They  are  opening  fast,"  I  said. 

"Does  n't  it  occur  to  you,  my  dear,  that 
there  is  a  little  mote  in  your  own  eye,  a  little 
beam  of  sex?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said. 

"What  do  you  think  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  know  I  love  you  very  dearly,"  he 
said,  "don't  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  do  know." 

"You  know  that  I'm  not  a  marrying  man." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  marry  me,"  I  said 
quickly;  "I've  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
I  just  want  you  to  care  about  me  the  way  you 
do." 

"I  can't  care  about  you  the  way  I  do.  I've 
either  got  to  care  about  you  more  or  less.  You 
know  that." 

"Why?"  I  said;  "I  just  want  you  for  my 
friend,  for  the  person  I  can  tell  everything  to 
and  who  will  understand  me.  You  can  care 
about  me  as  much  as  that,  can't  you?" 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      149 

"It  seems  simple,  the  way  you  put  it,"  he 
said,  "but  you  know  better." 

"I  don't  think  I  do,"  I  said;  "you've  never 
talked  like  this  before." 

"It's  time  I  did,"  he  said. 

"You  —  you  frighten  me,"  I  said. 

"I  mean  to.  You  need  frightening.  You're 
very  young,  but  you  are  after  all  not  quite  so 
young  as  you  pretend  to  be.  You  know  what 
you  are  doing,  dear.  You  know  what  you  are 
doing  to  me." 

"I  don't  think  I  do,"  I  said. 

"I  think  you  do.  You've  got  too  good  a 
head  not  to  know.  You  know  what  I  represent 
to  you." 

"What  do  you  represent?"  I  said. 

"Emotion,"  he  said,  "life.  Sex,  if  you  want 
to  call  it  that." 

"I  thought  it  was  something  else,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?  It's  your  responsibility  as  well  as 
mine,  you  know." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  about  it?"  I 
said. 

"I  have  nothing  to  suggest,"  he  said;  "I 
love  you.  You've  led  me  on  — " 


150      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  did  n't  know  it  was  that,"  I  said. 

"What  did  you  think  it  was?" 

"I  did  n't  think." 

"Think  now,"  he  said;  "what  you  want  is 
life.  I  can  give  it  to  you.  You  know  too  much 
for  your  ignorance,  dear.  You  ought  to  get 
your  balance  young." 

"I  shall,"  I  said. 

It's  embarrassing  to  sit  in  a  restaurant 
with  the  tears  streaming  down  your  face, 
trying  to  talk  airy  nothings  as  if  you  did  n't 
know  they  were  there.  I  had  to  change  the 
subject  to  something  more  trivial. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Webster  girls  lately?" 

"I  went  with  Mertis  to  'Look  Who's  Here,' 
last  night,"  he  said;  "some  newspaper  friend 
sent  them  tickets." 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"Be  a  sport,"  he  said;  "I'm  only  trying  to 
put  things  straight.  You'll  be  glad  I  did." 

"I'm  glad  now,"  I  said;  "did  you  like 
'Look  Who's  Here'?" 

"Fairly.  The  girls  weren't  much,  and  the 
costumes  were  both  shocking  and  ugly." 

"Like  life,"  I  said. 

"Life  is  n't  shocking  and   ugly.    It's  very 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      151 

beautiful.  I  can  show  you  how  beautiful  it  is." 

"Not  now,"  I  said;  "I  suppose  you  think 
I'm  a  kind  of  baby  vamp?" 

"  Yes  —  and  no,"  he  said. 

"You  said  I  led  you  on." 

"You  did." 

"I  loved  you,"  I  said;  "I  did  n't  know  it,  but 
I  loved  you." 

"Why  the  past  tense?" 

"Because  it  is  the  past  tense." 

Then,  because  I  could  n't  control  the  tears 
that  kept  coming  faster  all  the  time,  Carring- 
ton  called  a  taxicab  and  took  me  home.  He 
held  my  hand  in  the  cab  as  usual. 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  ashamed  to 
let  me  see  what  a  cry-baby  you  are,"  he  said 
jokingly. 

"I  don't  care,"  I  said;  "you  might  as  well 
see  me  cry.  You've  seen  other  things." 

"I  understand  you  better  than  you  think," 
he  said;  "I've  just  tried  to  show  you  my  point 
of  view." 

"You  have,"  I  said. 

He  kissed  me  good-night. 

"Will  you  let  me  hear  from  you,  dear?"  he 
said. 


152      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

When  I  got  into  the  house  I  saw  Mother 
kissing  Ellery  in  the  front  hall.  She  knew  that 
I  saw  her,  and  called  me  in  to  talk  about  it 
after  Ellery  was  gone. 

''  You  must  n't  misunderstand,  dear,"  she 
said;  "Ellery  and  I  are  very  old  friends,  you 
know.  We've  always  had  a  more  or  less  af- 
fectionate relation." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  I  said. 

"That's  not  quite  the  way  to  speak  to  your 
mother,  Mary." 

"I  don't  care,"  I  said;  "I  think  everything 
is  rotten.  You  don't  have  to  apologize  to  me 
for  how  rotten  things  are.  I  know." 

And  I  left  her  standing  at  her  dressing-table 
with  her  hairbrush  in  her  hand,  and  her  eyes 
wide  open. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  first  week  of  my  being  with  Prunella  in 
Tony  Cowles's  apartment  was  like  the  blind 
visiting  the  halt.  I  could  hardly  see  some  of 
the  time,  because  things  got  a  peculiar  habit  of 
darkening  before  my  eyes,  or  the  room  would 
tip  itself  up  and  then  swing  back  again  and 
settle  in  a  very  giddy  fashion.  I  had  a  pain 
around  my  heart,  which  I  thought  was  organic 
too  for  a  time. 

Prunella  was  hardly  any  better  off.  She 
was  so  used  to  the  querulous  sound  of  her 
mother's  voice  that  she  shivered  every  time 
she  felt  as  if  she  was  going  to  hear  it.  I  kept 
my  own  state  of  mind  from  her  as  well  as  I 
could  because  I  think  you  have  to  in  the  case  of 
a  person  being  weaker  than  you  are.  Prunella 
was  all  shot  to  pieces;  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  I  missed  Squidgins.  The  top  of  his  head, 
soft  spot  and  all,  would  have  been  a  good  thing 
for  my  heart  trouble.  Of  course,  it  was  sex 
that  was  responsible  for  his  being  in  the  world, 
but  you  don't  have  to  think  of  that  with  a 


154      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

baby  because  the  baby  itself  does  n't  under- 
stand anything  about  it.  Anybody  else  may  be 
acting  from  not  unmixed  motives.  According 
to  Carrington,  I  was. 

The  place  turned  out  to  be  adorable  — 
well,  perhaps  it  was  a  little  too  bachelory  to 
be  called  that,  but  it  was  perfect.  It  was  n't 
done  in  mission  furniture,  though  there  were 
big  chairs  and  couches  of  carved  dark  wood 
and  Spanish  leather  in  the  living-room,  which 
was  also  a  library,  with  low  shelves  running 
all  the  way  round  it  stuffed  with  all  the  most 
heavenly  books  in  the  world.  I  felt  almost 
safe  there. 

Prunella,  in  a  blue  cap  to  match  her  eyes, 
and  her  soft  mouse-colored  hair  fluffed  around 
her  face,  had  her  breakfast  served  in  bed,  and  I 
had  mine  with  her,  sitting  up  in  a  high-backed 
chair  by  the  bedside  table  that  Tony  bought 
especially  for  this  function. 

"Wouldn't  this  be  fun/'  Prunella  said, 
"if  I  were  n't  feeling  so  badly?  Poor  Maisie, 
I  am  sorry  for  you  with  an  invalid  on  your 
hands." 

"It's  fun,  anyway,  is  n't  it?"  I  said,  want- 
ing her  to  believe  it  was. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      155 

"I  don't  think  anything 's  fun  any  more," 
Prunella  said,  "since  Mr.  Pemberton  died. 
I  keep  feeling  that  anybody  might  die,  and 
that  I  am  probably  going  to.  There  is  n't 
much  to  live  for,  I  don't  think." 

"You're  just  morbid,"  I  said. 

"I  don't  think  this  sanatorium  is  going  to 
do  Mother  any  good,  and  if  it  does  n't  I  can't 
stand  it." 

"Do  you  love  her  so  much,  Prunella?"  I 
said. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  love,"  Prunella  said; 
"  I  worry  about  her  all  the  time  whether  I  'm 
with  her  or  not,  and  she  can't  bear  me  out  of 
her  sight." 

"She  took  Mr.  Pemberton's  death  very 
hard,"  I  said.  "Prunella,  do  you  think  she 
would  have  been  fond  of  him  just  the  same  if 
your  father  had  been  living?" 

"What  a  terrible  question!"  Prunella  cried, 
"how  can  you  say  such  a  thing,  Maisie?" 

"I  just  wondered,"  I  said. 

"Maisie,  sometimes  I  don't  think  you  seem 
natural.  You  just  walk  around  the  house  like 
a  person  in  a  dream,  and  you  say  unnatural 
things." 


156      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Maybe  I'm  a  kind  of  monster,"  I  said, 
trying  to  be  playful.  "I  was  accused  of  being 
a  baby  vamp  once." 

"Who  accused  you?" 

"  Carrington,"  I  said. 

"Well,  he  was  just  kidding  you." 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  smiling.  I  can  almost 
always  smile  now.  I  've  only  cried  those  two 
times,  once  with  Tony  Cowles  and  again  that 
same  night  when  Carrington  took  me  to  the 
Butterfly  Grill. 

"Nobody  ever  called  me  a  baby  vamp," 
Prunella  said;  "I  don't  see  any  boys,  anyway. 
I'm  always  running  around  with  the  smell- 
ing salts.  Oh  dear,  that's  very  wicked  of  me! 
Sometimes  I  'm  afraid  when  I  say  a  thing  like 
that  I'll  be  punished  for  it." 

"I  don't  think  we  are  punished,"  I  said;  "  if 
I  thought  we  were  I  should  be  glad." 

"Why?  "said  Prunella. 

"Well,  I'd  think  there  was  Some  One  to 
punish  us.  Some  reason  for  it  all." 

"What  do  you  think  now?" 

"I  don't  think  there  is  much  reason  for  any- 
thing. I  think  most  things  are  — -"I  was  going 
to  say  rotten,  but  I  remembered  that  it  was  n't 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      157 

a  very  good  idea  to  share  this  feeling  with  poor 
Prunella. 

"When  I  make  a  remark  about  Mother,  a 
remark  that  shows  tiredness  or  impatience,  I 
feel  sometimes  as  if  I  were  driving  a  nail  into 
her  coffin." 

"It's  cigarettes,"  I  said,  "that  drive  nails 
into  people's  coffins.  Besides  I  think  your 
mother  is  better  than  you  are,  apart  from  her 
grief  at  losing  so  young  a  husband." 

"He  was  young,"  Prunella  said,  "but  he 
was  awfully  nice  when  you  came  to  know  him, 
and  very  helpful  too." 

"Did  you  ever  think,  Prunella,"  I  said, 
"that  he  might  have  really  hurt  her  feelings 
worse  if  he  had  lived?" 

"  I  think  I  could  always  have  shielded  her," 
Prunella  said,  "  but  perhaps  I  could  n't." 

"Well,  since  he  is  dead,  why  don't  you  think 
that?"  I  said;  "it  can't  hurt  any  one." 

"You  mean  that  you  think  it  would  be  all 
right  for  me  to  decide  that  it's  the  best  thing 
that  could  have  happened?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  said. 

"Don't  you  think  that's  a  kind  of  heartless 
way  of  looking  at  it?" 


158      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"  I  think  that  dying  would  be  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  to  lots  of  people." 

"Something's  got  into  you,"  Prunella  said; 
"I  know  it  has.  You've  always  been  a  kind  of 
backbone  to  me,  and  now  I  feel  as  if  it  were 
giving  way." 

"Well,  don't  cry,  Prunella,"  I  said,  com- 
forting her;  "backbones  don't  really  give  way. 
Maybe  I've  just  got  a  curvature  of  the  spine 
like  Richard  Third." 

"Oh,  don't!"  said  Prunella. 

After  that  I  tried  not  to  distress  her  by  any 
allusions,  covert  or  otherwise,  to  the  things  I 
was  thinking.  However  little  you  care  to  go 
on  living,  you  ought  to  keep  it  to  yourself,  I 
suppose.  Just  because  you've  found  out  that 
life  is  fundamentally  evil  and  disgusting  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  go  around  spreading 
the  glad  tidings. 

"Tony  Cowles  is  very  good  to  you,"  I  ob- 
served, to  change  the  subject. 

;<  Yes,  he  is,"  Prunella  agreed. 

;*  You  have  a  kind  of  an  ideal  friendship  with 
him,  have  n't  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  have.  If  it  was  n't  for  Tony  I  should 
die,  I  think." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      159 

My  poor  old  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but 
Prunella  did  n't  see  them. 

"He's  certainly  an  ideal  host,"  I  said. 
"Miranda  said  that  he  ordered  chicken  and 
waffles  and  Henri  ice  cream  for  to-night,  and 
he's  going  to  take  Tommy  Nevers  with  us  to 
the  theater  if  he  can  get  him  over  the  tele- 
phone." 

"I  did  n't  know  that,"  Prunella  said,  cheer- 
ing up. 

"You  like  Tommy,  don't  you,  Prunella?" 

"Well,  you  do,  too.  I  like  his  ideas  about 
things.  He's  so  sensible,  and  everything," 
said  Prunella. 

"He  likes  fresh  air,"  I  said  shyly. 

"He  likes  sensible  girls,  too.  Girls  that  are 
good  sports  and  don't  flirt,  you  know.  The 
kind  that  are  not  always  anxious  to  get  out  on 
thin  ice." 

"Yes,  I  know  he  does." 

"I  don't  think  he  really  cares  much  for  the 
Webster  girls.  He  practically  described  them 
in  telling  me  the  kind  of  girls  he  did  n't  care 
for." 

"Well,  Mertis  is  going  to  get  a  permanent 
wave,"  I  said. 


160      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 
"He  likes  permanent  waves." 
"Oh!  I  don't  think  he  does." 
"Well,  you  ask  him  if  you  get  a  chance." 
I  gave  her  a  chance  that  evening,  when  we 
all  went  to  "Ruddigore"  together,  after  gorg- 
ing on  fried  chicken  and  waffles.  Or  I  did  n't 
exactly  give  her  a  chance;  Tony  did.  He 
planned  it  that  I  was  to  sit  next  to  him,  and 
Prunella  and  Tommy  together.  When  the 
curtain  went  up  his  hand  was  lying  on  the 
chair-arm,  and  I  kept  looking  at  it  at  inter- 
vals, and  wishing  I  could  close  my  eyes  and 
hold  it  a  few  minutes  instead  of  gazing  at  the 
performance.  I  don't  think  anybody  in  the 
world  could  help  me,  but  I'd  like  to  tell  him 
what  I  had  found  out  about  life,  and  see  what 
he  'd  have  to  say  about  it.  Maybe  he  'd  send 
me  to  a  sanatorium,  or  send  me  away  from 
Prunella  so  as  to  be  sure  that  I  would  n't  con- 
taminate her.  Of  course,  I  can't  be  intrinsi- 
cally very  nice,  considering  the  kind  of  things 
that  I  am  mixed  up  in  and  supposed  to  re- 
semble. 

"Are  you  devoted  to  Gilbert  and  Sullivan?" 
Tony  asked  me  when  the  lights  went  on.   He 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      161 

took  his  hand  away  and  opened  his  programme 
with  it,  and  then  let  it  fall  on  his  overcoat 
which  he  was  holding. 

"If  this  is  it,  I  am,"  I  said. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said  seriously. 

"Of  course,  I've  played  'Pinafore,'"  I  said, 
"but  I've  never  seen  any  of  them  acted  be- 
fore." 

"This  is  n't  the  best  of  them  musically,"  he 
said,  "but  it's  one  of  the  most  delightful." 

"It's  got  lovely  tunes." 

"Shall  I  send  you  a  score  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  please,"  I  said,  and  we  both  laughed. 

"How  do  you  think  Prunella  seems?" 

"All  right  now"  I  said. 

On  the  other  side  of  me  I  heard  Tommy 
giving  her  an  outline  of  his  daily  schedule. 
He'd  got  as  far  as  "When  I'm  in  the  subway 
I  begin  to  concentrate  on  the  possible  emer- 
gencies I  will  have  to  meet  — "  and  Prunella 
was  listening  to  him  eagerly. 

"As  a  general  thing  do  you  think  she  is 
gaining?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  said.  "Mr.  Cowles,  I'm  not 
altogether  sure  that  I  'm  the  best  influence  for 
her.  I  don't  want  to  be  visiting  you  under 


162      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

false  pretenses.  You  know  that  I  told  you 
that  I  was  n't  very  cheerful." 

"You  said  you  had  had  a  shock." 

"I  keep  having  shocks,"  I  said,  "and  they 
make  me  a  little  bit  draggy.  If  you  don't  think 
I  am  good  for  Prunella,  you  just  have  to  say 
so,  and  I  will  go  away." 

"Shocks?"  Tony  Cowles  said  invitingly. 

But  I  did  n't  pursue  the  subject. 

"I  think  you  are  the  best  possible  influence 
Prunella  could  have,"  he  said;  "if  Miranda 
does  n't  make  you  perfectly  comfortable  I 
hope  you  will  complain  at  headquarters." 

"You  know  she  does." 

"I  hoped  she  did." 

"The  opportunity  is  in  himself,"  Tommy 
was  concluding. 

"I  think  you  are  perfectly  right  about  that," 
Prunella  agreed. 

"A  motto  with  that  strange  device,"  Tony 
Cowles  murmured,  as  the  curtain  rose  on  the 
second  act.  Then  he  put  his  hand  back  where 
I  could  look  at  it  again. 

It  was  not  until  after  that  night  that  I  be- 
gan to  want  to  see  Carrington  again.  I  had 
not  supposed  that  I  ever  would  want  to.  I 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      163 

had  thought  seriously  of  killing  myself,  for  I 
agree  with  Stella  that  when  an  individual  has 
ceased  to  be  of  service  to  a  community  or  to 
himself  he  has  a  perfect  right  to  self-destruc- 
tion. It's  a  matter  of  your  own  conscience, 
really.  As  long  as  you  believe  that  you  are  put 
in  this  world  for  a  beneficent  purpose,  and 
you  follow  out  the  laws  of  physical  and  mental 
development  accordingly,  why,  then  you  are 
not  a  detrimental  force,  but  when  you  begin 
to  deteriorate  —  you  are.  Cosgrove  says  you 
have  a  perfect  right  to  be  a  destructive  ele- 
ment if  you  want  to.  But  I  don't  want  to. 

I  intended  to  wait  until  my  visit  with  Pru- 
nella was  over,  as  it  would  n't  be  very  nice  of 
me  to  leave  her  and  Tony  Cowles  in  the  lurch 
—  and  then  perhaps  drown  myself.  I  never 
have  thought  that  I  wanted  to  turn  on  the  gas. 
I'd  always  be  afraid  that  I  would  be  resusci- 
tated by  mistaken  friends,  but  drowning  is 
good  clean  business,  and  when  you  are  dead  you 
are  dead,  and  not  disillusionized  any  longer. 

It 's  curious  how  your  ideas  of  things  change. 
I  was  more  frightened  of  death  than  of  any- 
thing when  Mr.  Pemberton  died,  and  now  it 
is  rather  a  welcome  idea  to  me. 


164      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

I  began  to  write  notes  and  letters  to  Car- 
rington  every  day  when  Prunella  was  taking 
her  nap.  Of  course  I  never  sent  any  of  them. 
For  one  thing  I  did  n't  write  them  to  send,  and 
for  another  I  did  n't  want  to  make  an  ap- 
pointment to  see  him  while  I  was  visiting 
Tony  Cowles.  If  I  went  out  to  meet  Carring- 
ton  from  there  it  would  have  seemed  sneaky. 
I  don't  know  where  I  got  my  ethical  point  of 
view  from,  but  that  was  the  way  I  felt. 

Then  one  day  I  was  all  alone  in  the  apart- 
ment while  Prunella  and  Tony  were  out  walk- 
ing, and  I  just  went  over  to  the  desk  and 
wrote  pages  and  pages  without  stopping. 
-..,  "Dear  Carrington,"  I  said,  "you  may  be 
surprised  to  get  a  letter  from  me,  because  I 
have  only  written  you  notes  before,  but  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  my  point  of  view  on  our 
friendship,  and  then  to  stop  it  forever  —  if  I 
can. 

"You  see,  I  thought  this  was  an  entirely 
different  world  from  what  it  is.  I  was  brought 
up  in  a  rather  peculiar  way,  and  I  had  to  do 
my  thinking  for  myself.  I  did  n't  have  brains 
enough  to  get  anything  '  doped  out '  right,  ap- 
parently. I  probably  did  n't  have  the  most 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      165 

helpful  kind  of  education  to  improve  my 
philosophy,  and  my  bringing-up  was  eccentric 
in  some  ways.  Stella  and  Mother  and  Father 
all  have  such  diametrically  opposed  ways  of 
looking  at  things.  I  think  it  would  be  better  to 
have  rules  of  conduct  laid  down  for  young 
girls,  and  not  so  much  left  to  their  imagina- 
tion. Your  parents  ought  to  tell  you  what  is 
right  and  wrong  or  good  and  bad,  and  if  they 
don't  know,  why,  the  State  ought  to  have  the 
power  to  do  it,  like  in  the  old  days  of  the 
Greeks.  Some  order  might  be  brought  out  of 
chaos  this  way,  but  perhaps  it  does  n't  matter. 
"  I  just  took  the  universe  on  trust,  I  suppose. 
I  took  John  Stuart  Mill's  word  for  it  that  evil 
was  put  into  the  world  so  that  there  would 
be  something  to  keep  the  wheels  going  round. 
It  would  be  a  static  condition  if  there  was 
n't  some  elimination  going  on.  That  always 
seemed  very  reasonable  to  me,  and  a  great 
comfort,  when  my  sister  was  philosophizing 
about  the  menace  of  modern  civilization  and 
so  on.  Then  I  have  found  so  much  about 
Beauty  in  the  literature  of  the  poets,  and  even 
in  the  prevailing  conversation  of  different 
people,  that  I  got  to  believe  in  it  as  a  thing 


166      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

you  could  go  on  expecting  to  find  —  beauty 
and  love.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  making 
my  ideas  very  clear.  I  am  just  trying  to  tell 
you  the  things  that  may  excuse  me  a  little  for 
my  attitude  toward  you. 

"When  I  began  to  find  out  things  about  my 
father  and  my  mother  that  did  n't  seem  quite 
right,  I  could  n't  believe  even  then  that  there 
was  any  explanation  of  their  conduct  but  a 
kind  of  sloppy  or  lackadaisical  way  they  had  of 
looking  at  things.  I  should  not  have  talked  to 
you  about  my  fears  on  this  subject  if  they  had 
been  real  fears  or  suspicions.  I  know  you  will 
be  inclined  to  scoff  at  my  saying  so,  but  I  just 
did  n't  know  that  things  were  like  that.  I 
supposed  in  a  dim  way  that  your  own  relations 
had  to  be  like  Csesar's  wife,  *  above  suspicion/ 

"It  was  n't  right  for  me  to  meet  you  out  at 
different  places  without  telling  my  mother,  or 
it  would  n't  have  been  right  if  I  had  had 
the  kind  of  mother  that  really  minded  such 
things.  Perhaps  I  am  exaggerating  the  im- 
portance of  mothers.  I  don't  know.  This 
was  my  first  mistake.  My  second  mistake  was 
a  much  more  serious  one.  You  know  what  that 
was,  as  well  as  I  do.  Of  course,  it  did  n't  seem 


BEAUTY —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      167 

wrong  to  me  because  I  did  n't  know  what 
things  were  like.  I  was  silly  enough  to  believe 
that  there  could  be  tender  and  beautiful 
friendships  that  could  go  on  indefinitely,  with 
each  trusting  the  other  and  giving  the  other 
the  comfort  and  affection  that  he  craved. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  about  sex  in  a  general 
way,  but  I  did  n't  seem  to  connect  what  I  knew 
with  my  devotion  to  you,  or  with  the  way  it 
made  me  happy  to  have  you  near  me.  I  sup- 
pose this  is  because  it  cloaks  itself  in  the  guise 
of  beauty,  just  as  Nature  cloaks  the  animals  in 
brilliant  plumage  to  further  her  own  ends.  If 
my  mind  had  been  more  logical  I  should  have 
understood  this  before,  but  as  it  was  I  only 
knew  that  I  loved  you.  I  suppose  you  will 
think  that  I  am  making  confused  explana- 
tions when  I  say  that  I  knew  that  I  loved  you, 
and  I  did  n't  know  it  at  the  same  time.  But  it 
seemed  all  right  to  me.  I  don't  know  whether 
that  is  a  thing  you  can  believe  or  not.  You 
said  I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  You  said  I  was 
a  baby  vamp. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  am  a  baby  vamp.  I 
understand  perfectly  —  when  you  say  you 
love  me  —  what  you  mean,  but  I  don't  like  it 


168      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

very  much.  I  suppose  that  is  not  very  con- 
sistent of  me.  I  loved  you,  and  all  I  could  ex- 
pect was  that  you  would  point  out  to  me  what 
I  was  doing. 

"You  said  I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  I  must 
have  known  in  a  general  way,  but  I  can't  un- 
derstand yet  why  I  was  not  warned  by  my 
intuition  that  there  was  something  else  be- 
neath it  all.  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would 
ask  me  to  marry  you.  I  did  n't  want  you  to, 
because  I  was  so  happy  as  I  was. 

"Now,  I  don't  see  how  we  can  go  on.  I 
should  like  to  see  you  again  and  talk  things 
over,  and  perhaps  I  shall  some  day,  but  that  is 
all,  and  — " 

At  this  point  I  stopped,  because  I  could  see 
that  to  his  logical  mind  I  would  n't  seem  to  be 
getting  anywhere.  He  would  n't  care  so  much 
why  it  was  that  I  felt  the  way  I  do.  He  would 
only  want  to  know  whether  I  was  going  to  do 
anything  about  it  or  not.  I  don't  want  to  do 
anything  about  it,  because  it  would  be  so  ter- 
rible to  see  him  again  with  that  one  expression 
on  his  face.  So  I  tore  up  the  letter.  I  tore  it  in 
long  scraggly  pieces,  and  then  I  tore  it  in  little 
pieces,  and  burned  it  in  Tony  Cowles's  grate, 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      169 

and  when  he  and  Prunella  came  back  from 
their  walk  it  was  burning  merrily. 

"A  bonfire?"  Tony  Cowles  said  interroga- 
tively. 

"A  bonfire,"  I  said. 

"Nothing  wrong?"  he  said  with  an  intent 
gaze  into  my  face. 

Then  as  I  did  n't  answer  he  put  one  of  his 
nice  friendly  hands  on  my  shoulder. 

"I  wrote  a  letter,"  I  said,  "and  burnt  it  up." 

"That  is  sometimes  the  best  possible  thing 
to  do  with  a  letter,"  he  answered  quietly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  HAD  forgotten  that  my  visit  in  Tony  Cowles's 
apartment  could  n't  last  forever.  It  could  have 
gone  on  almost  indefinitely,  I  suppose,  if  Mrs. 
Pemberton  had  n't  come  frantically  out  of  her 
sanatorium  one  day  when  she  was  n't  expected 
to.  Tony  thought  he  had  her  sewed  in  too 
tight  for  anything  like  that  to  happen,  but 
stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make,  nor  iron  bars 
a  cage.  She  came  right  through  all  of  them, 
and  appeared  to  us  one  sunny  morning  slightly 
lit  up,  though  Prunella  could  n't  imagine 
where  she  got  it.  She  probably  bribed  some- 
body at  the  sanatorium.  I  shudder  now  when 
I  think  of  the  expression  on  her  face  when  she 
held  out  her  arms  to  Prunella,  and  cried  in  a 
high,  hysterical  voice: 

"Darling,   aren't   you   glad   to   see   your 

mother?" 

* 

'Your  hat  is  on  crooked,  Mother,"  Pru- 
nella said,  trying  to  straighten  it. 

Mrs.  Pemberton  pulled  some  of  the  strag- 
gling henna  locks  down  over  her  nose,  and 
blew  at  them  inanely. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      171 

4 'Don't  want  any  hat  on,"  she  said;  "take  it 
off,  dearie." 

So  Prunella  took  it  off,  and  finally  got  her 
mother  quieted  and  put  to  bed  in  Tony 
Cowles's  bed  that  she  herself  always  slept  in, 
but  before  she  went  off  to  sleep  she  had  ex- 
tracted a  sacred  promise  from  Prunella  that 
she  would  never  leave  her  again.  It  was  all  so 
ghastly  that  I  felt  quite  seasick.  Mrs.  Pember- 
ton  is  a  refined  woman,  of  the  very  best  family 
and  antecedents,  but  she  looks  and  acts  a  good 
deal  like  a  park-bench  woman.  It  is  a  strange 
mystery  to  me  that  a  lady  like  Prunella's 
mother  can  be  a  regular  pathological  case  that 
the  Charity  Organization  societies  would  be 
after  if  she  moved  in  a  different  social  sphere. 
She's  like  a  piece  of  beautiful  decaying  fruit, 
drenched  in  wine. 

Tony  Cowles  was  heartbroken  at  the  failure 
of  his  plan  for  Prunella's  preservation,  but  the 
best  of  his  efforts  failed  to  persuade  her  to 
have  her  mother  taken  away  from  her  again. 
Prunella  believes  that  she  alone  can  stand  be- 
tween her  mother  and  destruction,  and  even 
the  doctor  won't  admit  that  to  tear  them  apart 
is  the  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  I  think  it  is, 


172      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

myself,  but  men  are  a  good  deal  more  senti- 
mental about  family  relations  than  women 
are.  They  don't  know  so  much  about  them 
from  the  inside  of  the  inside. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  do  now,"  Tony 
Cowles  said,  "is  to  have  Mrs.  Pemberton  com- 
mitted if  she  gets  enough  worse  to  warrant 
such  a  step." 

"She  will,"  I  said. 

"Prunella  has  always  listened  to  me  before, 
but  this  time  she  does  n't  think  I  know." 

"She  does  n't  think  there  is  any  escape,"  I 
said,  "and  she  can't  stand  the  strain  of  pre- 
tending there  is,  and  then  having  her  mother 
pounce  on  her  again." 

"Do  you  think  that  is  it?"  Tony  Cowles 
asked  wonderingly. 

"I  know  it  is,"  I  said. 

"Then  the  thing  to  do  is  to  prove  to  her  that 
there  is  a  way  out  once  and  for  all." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"We  must  think  about  that." 

"We  will,"  I  said. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  my  house  party  finish- 
ing so  abruptly." 

"I'm  sorry,  too." 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      173 

"Are  the  shocks  any  better?" 

"There  are  some  kinds  of  shocks  that  never 
get  any  better." 

"No  physician  would  agree  with  you." 

"No  physician  would  know,"  I  said. 

"I'm  not  only  Prunella's  friend  in  need,  you 
know,"  Tony  said  gravely. 

"I  know  that,"  I  said. 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  my  downtown  ad- 
dress and  telephone  number.  You  know  how  to 
reach  me  here,  now,  and  if  you  don't  find  me 
either  here  or  there  you  could  try  the  club." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  be  in  need  any 
more,"  I  said. 

"I  might  be  in  need  of  you,  at  least,"  Tony 
Cowles  said. 

"You  have  my  telephone  number." 

"So  don't  throw  mine  away.  Sometimes 
unforeseen  things  happen  like  houses  burning 
down,  or  lovely  ladies  meeting  a  ruffian, 
or—" 

"My  house  did  burn  down,"  I  said. 

"You  mean  your  house  of  life,"  Tony 
Cowles  said  swiftly. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  ' 

It  was  temporarily  settled  that  when  Mrs. 


174      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Pemberton  went  back  to  the  sanatorium  Pru- 
nella was  to  go  with  her,  also  as  a  patient. 
It  was  a  pretty  good  solution  of  a  matter  that 
could  n't  be  solved.  Mrs.  Pemberton  would  n't 
go  without  her,  but  she  did  consent  to  take  her 
along,  and  at  least  Prunella  would  be  being 
built  up  by  having  good  care  herself,  and 
the  nature  of  the  treatment  would  keep  her 
away  from  her  mother  for  good  long  intervals. 
So  I  went  home  again  to  Stella  and  Mother 
and  Squidgins  and  Bobby,  and  my  intermit- 
tent father.  I  felt  so  many  thousand  years 
older  than  I  did  when  I  went  away  that  it  was 
hard  to  adjust  myself  to  my  old  scale  of  living, 
or  to  remember  all  the  things  that  I  was  sup- 
posed to  think  and  feel  under  given  circum- 
stances. I  felt  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  more  than 
anything,  awake  and  alive  after  a  long  sleep 
that  had  left  me  a  thousand  years  old,  and 
everybody  else  entirely  changed.  Squidgins, 
however,  had  only  taken  advantage  of  my  ab- 
sence to  acquire  a  few  parlor  tricks,  and  to  lose 
about  a  square  inch  of  hair  from  the  back  of 
his  head.  I  think  he  is  going  quite  bald.  The 
nurse  had  just  gone  the  first  day  I  came  home, 
and  I  was  allowed  to  take  a  good  deal  of  the 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      175 

care  of  him,  and  finally  put  him  to  bed  at 
night  after  changing  him  out  of  his  ridiculous 
day  things  into  his  equally  ridiculous  night 
ones.  I  felt  like  making  a  prayer  as  I  tucked 
him  under  his  pink  eiderdown. 

"God,  if  there  is  a  God,"  I  said  (out  of 
some  story,  I  can't  remember  what),  "if  Thou 
knowest  any  comfort  for  an  entirely  desolate 
girl,  who  does  n't  believe  in  anything,  send  it 
to  me.  Help  Thou  mine  unbelief.  Bless  this 
little  helpless  baby,  and  bless  me." 

Then  I  kissed  his  pink  and  wiggling  toes  and 
felt  quite  peaceful.  I  know  Stella  entirely  dis- 
approves of  kissing,  but  I  don't  think  a  germ 
could  travel  from  an  infant's  head  to  his  feet 
without  getting  lost  in  transit,  and  he  is  n't 
big  enough  to  get  his  toes  in  his  mouth  yet. 

Bobby  was  very  glad  to  see  me.  He  was 
building  an  airplane  in  his  own  room,  and  the 
place  was  entirely  littered  up  with  shavings 
and  whalebone  and  chamois  skin,  and  all  the 
other  things  that  he  thought  might  be  useful  to 
him. 

"I  was  going  to  build  a  dirigible,"  he  said, 
"but  I  could  n't  find  out  anything  to  make  it 
of." 


176      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"  Why  don't  you  make  a  kite?  "  I  said;  "and 
then  you  could  really  fly  it." 

"If  I  wanted  to  make  a  kite,  I  would,"  he 
said. 

"Have  you  been  all  right?"  I  said. 

"Sure,  I  have." 

"Did  you  remember  the  things  I  told  you 
about  —  school? " 

"What  things?" 

"Did  you  remember  them?" 

"I  don't  know  what  things  you  mean." 

"About  keeping  away  from  the  worst  boys." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  knew  there  was  any 
worst  boys,"  he  muttered  in  his  teeth,  whit- 
tling industriously  all  the  time. 

"I  knew,"  I  said;  and  then,  being  reminded 
of  other  things  that  won't  stay  buried  in  my 
mind  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time, 
my  poor  old  eyes  slopped  over  again. 

Bobby  looked  up  in  consternation. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?"  he  said. 

"  I  'm  very  tired,  Bobby,"  I  said. 

"Well,  you  make  me  tired,"  he  said,  in  a 
very  shamefaced  way.  "If  you  knew  how 
good  I  behaved,  you  'd  know  that  you  did  n't 
have  any  cause  to  worry  about  me.  I  keep 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      177 

away  from  those  boys.  I  have,  ever  since  you 
said  to." 

"Oh!  Bobby,"  I  said,  "I  wasn't  crying 
about  that,  but  I  am  now,"  and  I  made  some 
passes  at  him. 

"You  act  just  like  a  girl,"  he  said. 

But  he  put  his  arms  around  me,  and  hugged 
me,  and  breathed  down  my  back  a  few  times 
just  to  show  that  his  roughness  was  mostly 
assumed. 

At  dinner  every  one  was  unexpectedly 
cheerful. 

"It  seems  like  a  month  since  you  went 
away,  Mary,"  Mother  said,  "instead  of  a 
bare  two  weeks." 

"Delia  has  been  quite  disconsolate,"  Stella 
said,  and  Delia,  who  was  serving  me  with  hot 
corn  bread,  nearly  dropped  it  in  my  lap  while 
she  nudged  me  with  her  elbow. 

Cosgrove,  who  was  our  guest  that  evening, 
honored  me  with  a  penetrating  glance. 

"Mary  is  one  of  those  people  who  is  literally 
conspicuously  absent,"  he  said,  with  his  slow 
drawl. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  missed  me,"  I  said; 
"did  you  miss  me,  Daddy?" 


178      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Father  came  out  of  the  trance  in  which  he 
lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being. 

:'Yes,"  he  said,  "Cosgrove  is  right.  Your 
company  is  better  than  your  room,  any  day." 

"That's  gratifying,"  I  said;  "there's  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  homes  and  families,  Stella, 
if  you  can  react  on  them  like  that." 

"I  don't  think  I  can,"  said  Stella. 

"What  would  you  do  to  the  home,  if  you 
had  your  way,  Stella;  bust  it  entirely? "  Father 
asked. 

"Not  necessarily,"  Stella  said;  "in  principle 
all  human  habitations  should  be  nationalities, 
that's  all." 

"It  seems  simple,"  Father  murmured. 

"A  man  should  possess  as  personal  property 
the  house  in  which  he  lives,"  Cosgrove  said 
earnestly,  "but  that  right  should  be  contin- 
gent upon  his  use  of  the  place." 

"What  use  ought  he  to  put  it  to?"  I  said. 

"He  should  make  only  one  use  of  it,  as  an 
abode  for  himself  and  family." 

"But  I  thought  you  did  n't  believe  in  fami- 
lies," I  said. 

"Personally  I  don't,  but  the  soviet  system 
recognizes  the  family  unit." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      179 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  pro-family, 
then,  if  you  were  pro-soviet,"  I  said. 

"You  don't  understand  our  personal  atti- 
tude," Stella  said  patiently. 

"One  reactionary  daughter  in  a  family 
ought  to  be  enough,"  Cosgrove  said,  meaning 
it  as  a  pleasantry;  "you  are  pro-family  for  the 
two  of  you." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  believe  in  families 
any  more  than  Stella  does,"  I  said;  "only  I 
have  a  different  reason  for  it." 

"It's  a  matter  of  principle  with  me,  en- 
tirely," Stella  said.  "  I  think  there  is  something 
better  to  look  forward  to." 

"What's  your  reason?"  Cosgrove  asked  me 
interestedly. 

"I  don't  believe  they  are  founded  on  any- 
thing permanent,"  I  said  evasively. 

"Keeping  the  home  together  is  the  ideal  of  a 
great  many  women,"  Mother  said;  "the  ideal 
for  which  they  are  willing  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing." Father  gave  her  a  sharp  look. 

"A  great  many  women  who  might  be  against 
a  much  more  spectacular  background  are  will- 
ing and  glad  to  give  themselves  up  to  the  mak- 
ing of  a  home,"  she  concluded. 


180      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"It's  a  pity,"  Father  said  briefly. 

"Where's  old  Ellery?"  Bobby  put  in.  "I 
have  n't  seen  him  around  for  quite  a  while." 

"He  has  n't  been  here  for  a  week,"  Mother 
said,  sighing.  "That's  no  way  to  speak  of  our 
friends,  Bobby." 

"He's  not  my  friend,"  Father  said. 

" Ellery 's  all  right,"  Stella  contributed  pro- 
foundly; "he  lacks  intellectual  grasp/ that 's 
all." 

"He  has  a  dainty  nature,"  Cosgrove  added. 

Mother  colored  slightly,  and  Stella  sup- 
pressed her  husband  with  that  look  of  tran- 
quil reproof  that  anybody  else  would  find  per- 
fectly maddening. 

"Ellery  thinks  of  going  to  South  America," 
Mother  said,  sighing;  "he  thinks  that  the 
voyage  might  benefit  him." 

"Why  do  you  let  him  go?"  Father  asked 
sharply. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  Ellery 's  move- 
ments," Mother  said. 

Bobby  winked  at  me. 

"Have  n't  you?"  said  Father;  "why  not?" 

"Why  should  I  have?" 

"You  know  that  better  than  I  do." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      181 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  Mother  said 
shortly;  "don't  you  like  your  dessert?" 

"You  know  I  never  eat  cornstarch." 

"There's  very  little  cornstarch  in  that  pud- 
ding. It's  mostly  thickened  by  the  chocolate 
itself." 

"Why  don't  you  have  whipped  cream  if  you 
must  have  this  chocolate  stuff?  " 

"Do  you  realize  that  cream  has  gone  up  to 
sixty  cents  a  pint?  " 

"What  do  I  care?" 

"You  would  care  when  the  bills  began  to 
come  in.  The  only  way  to  cope  with  the  high 
cost  of  supplies  is  to  eliminate  the  things  that 
have  become  extravagant  luxuries." 

"There  was  a  little  boy  getting  his  hair  cut 
the  other  day,"  Bobby  broke  in,  "and  the 
barber  said  to  him,  'The  price  of  haircuts  has 
gone  up/  and  the  boy  looked  up  at  him  and 
said,  *I  don't  care;  my  father  is  a  lawyer,  and 
the  price  of  law  has  gone  up." 

"Exactly,"  said  Father,  getting  up  abruptly. 

"I  wish  your  father  wouldn't  get  injured 
when  I  explain  how  I  try  to  regulate  my  bud- 
get," Mother  said,  as  she  looked  after  his  re- 
treating figure. 


182      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"But  you  don't  need  to,  Mother,"  I  said; 
"you  have  more  money  than  you  spend  all  the 
time." 

"I  don't  any  more;  he's  cut  down  my  al- 
lowance," Mother  explained.  "  I  really  have  to 
manage  now." 

"He's  left  his  cigar-case,"  I  said.  "I  guess 
I'll  go  and  take  it  to  him." 

I  knocked  on  his  door  softly,  but  got  no 
answer.  Then  thinking  he  was  n't  in  there 
after  all  I  pushed  the  door  open,  meaning  to 
leave  the  case  on  his  dressing-table.  He  was 
lying  on  the  bed  face  downward,  and  did  not 
hear  me  come  in. 

"Father!"  I  cried.  "Father,  what's  the 
matter,  Father?  " 

He  turned  a  ghastly  face  toward  me,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"What's  the  matter,  Father?"  I  said  again; 
"are  you  ill?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  I  stood  still,  stupidly 
watching  him. 

"Can't  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

He  shook  his  head  again,  then  he  sat  up  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed  and  began  kneading  his  eyes 
and  his  forehead  with  the  palms  of  his  hand. 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      183 

"Family  life!"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  "fam- 
ily life!  Oh!  my  God!" 

And  all  I  could  do  was  to  go  out  and  leave 
him  sitting  there. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  Webster  girls,  being  the  only  people 
I  never  expected  anything  from,  naturally 
could  n't  disillusionize  me  by  falling  down  on 
it.  They  are  scatter-brained,  but  they  keep 
on  the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  never  getting 
into  any  trouble  that  they  can't  get  out  of, 
never  getting  too  much  disappointed  or  hurt 
about  anything,  and  living  in  a  charming  home 
atmosphere  which  they  take  as  a  perfect  mat- 
ter of  course. 

They  occupy  the  top  floor  of  their  house, 
having  two  enormous  bedrooms,  connected 
with  a  dressing-room,  and  every  reasonable 
luxury  thrown  in.  Mertis's  room  is  blue  with 
blue  hangings,  and  decorated  in  that  new  way 
they  are  doing  bedrooms  now,  with  flowered 
wall-paper  set  in  panels  between  the  wood- 
work. Her  flowers  are  violets,  and  Marion's 
are  forget-me-nots  on  a  rose  background. 
They  each  have  eiderdown  puffs  folded  corner- 
wise  across  the  filet  lace  counterpanes  on  their 
beds,  and  ivory  toilet  sets  with  enameled  vio- 
lets and  roses,  respectively,  —  and  oh!  every- 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      185 

thing.  My  bedroom  is  a  corner  room  that  de- 
bauches —  debauches  is  just  what  it  does  — 
on  a  busy  corridor,  and  the  dug-out  is  merely 
the  alcove  of  it.  I've  done  my  best  to  make 
it  peaceful,  but  the  publicity  of  its  situation 
is  something  that  is  beyond  my  poor  efforts  to 
rectify.  It 's  like  sitting  in  the  middle  table  in  a 
restaurant,  and  having  the  waiters  walk  round 
and  round  and  round  you. 

The  Webster  girls  were  both  in  Mertis's 
room  one  day  about  a  week  after  I  got  back 
home,  and  I  found  them  swimming  in  yards 
of  pale-colored  Georgette  and  lace  and  satin 
ribbon.  Mertis  was  making  herself  a  com- 
plete set  of  orchid-colored  lingerie,  and  Marion 
one  in  rose.  They  had  Paris  patterns,  and 
every  garment  was  a  dream. 

"It  looks  like  a  trousseau,"  I  said. 

"Not  yet,"  Mertis  said. 

"  No  wedding  bells  for  me,"  Marion  measured 
herself  from  her  hip  to  her  knee. 

"I  wouldn't  waste  these  on  a  mere  hus- 
band," Mertis  said.  "I'm  thinking  of  going 
into  musical  comedy  with  them." 

"I  never  saw  such  lovely  things." 

"There's  a  peach  of  a  lingerie   show  at 


186      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

Wanamaker's."  Marion  continued  to  take 
her  dimensions  serenely.  I  am  accustomed  to 
think  slightingly  of  the  Webster  brains,  but  I 
can't  attend  to  these  little  technicalities,  and 
keep  up  a  rattling  commentary  on  current 
topics  beside.  When  I  sew,  I  stick  my  tongue 
in  my  left  cheek  like  Bobby  at  his  carpenter- 
ing, and  knit  my  bushy  brows. 

"Their  lingerie  is  always  fascinating,"  I  said. 

"Like  all  good  Methodists  Mr.  Wanamaker 
runs  to  extremes  at  times,"  Mertis  said. 

"He  is  n't  a  Jlethodist,"  Marion  said. 

"Oh!  is  n't  he?  I  thought  he  was." 
:<The   weather   to-day   will   probably   be 
pleasant,"     Mertis    quoted    from    the    well- 
known  Wanamaker  ads. 

"I  can't  think  whether  to  make  a  camisole 
like  the  pattern,  and  a  little  pettie  separately, 
or  whether  to  sew  the  two  together  and  call  it 
a  combination,"  Marion  deliberated. 

"It  will  be  a  combination  if  you  do  that  to 
it,"  Mertis  said.  "I'm  going  to  make  mine 
separately,  because  there  might  be  a  time 
when  you  wanted  to  wear  some  kind  of  a  Turk- 
ish effect  and  the  pettie  would  be  superfluous." 

"On  the  other  hand,"  Marion  argued,  "I 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      187 

hate  to  have  garments  that  can  divide  at  the 
waist-line.  It  makes  the  whole  effect  ugly." 

"Oh!  you  two  are  such  a  comfort,"  I  said, 
"talking  about  things  like  this  as  if  they  were 
the  most  important  subjects  in  the  world." 

"Well,  they  are,"  Mertis  said;  "what  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself  lately?" 

"Taking  care  of  Stella's  baby." 

"Mercy!" 

"I  like  it,"  I  said. 

"I  think  she  does,  Marion,"  Mertis  said; 
"don't  you  know  some  girls  do?" 

"Well,  I  like  babies  better  than  you  do," 
Marion  agreed.  "I  don't  mind  them,  if  they 
don't  part  with  their  milk  suddenly,  or  any- 
thing. What  usually  happens  to  me  when  I  get 
a  baby  in  my  arms  is  — " 

"Never  mind,"  Mertis  said;  "but  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  handle  one  of  them,  Maisie, 
just  as  a  labor  of  love." 

"I  like  it,"  I  said.  "Squidgins  is  a  particu- 
larly nice  one." 

"And  yet  he  has  that  eccentric  father," 
Marion  mused. 

"Stella  is  n't  exactly  the  most  normal  per- 
son, is  she?" 


188      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"You  aren't  very  polite  about  Maisie's 
relations,"  Marion  reminded  her. 

"I  don't  have  to  be,"  Mertis  said.  "Maisie 
knows  what  I  mean.  I  would  n't  say  anything 
derogatory  to  Stella." 

"  There  is  nothing  derogatory  to  be  said  of 
Stella,"  I  said.  "Stella's  just  Stella,  that's  all." 

"And  yet,  this  offspring  is  a  perfect  wonder. 
Well,  wonders  will  never  cease.  Have  you  seen 
anything  of  Carrington  lately,  Maisie?" 

I  was  n't  expecting  this. 

"Well,  no,"  I  said. 

"We  haven't  either.  But  we've  heard  of 
him  around  with  Red  Feather  a  lot." 

"Who  is  Red  Feather?"  I  asked,  though  I 
did  n't  have  to  ask.  I  knew. 

"That's  Mrs.  Hyphen  Something  Jones, 
you  know." 

"She's  just  a  friendly  acquaintance  of  his," 
I  said;  "she  has  a  husband." 

"Yes,  but  he  spends  all  of  his  time  abroad." 

"And  Carrington  spends  most  of  his  time 
with  her,"  Mertis  contributed. 

"Why  do  you  let  him  get  away  with  it, 
Maisie?"  Marion  inquired. 

"I  —  what  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      189 

"  Oh !  you  need  n't  play  innocent.  You  know 
he's  crazy  about  you." 

"  Not  any  more,"  I  said. 

"What '11  you  bet?" 

"He  is  n't." 

"What '11  you  bet?  Be  a  sport.  Nut  sun- 
daes at  Page's?" 

"I  don't  want  to  bet  on  it?"  I  said. 

"Well,  you  know  he  is,  that's  why.  You've 
probably  started  your  hope  chest  already." 

"Oh!  don't,  please,"  I  said. 

"Let  her  alone,  Marion.  You're  bothering 
her." 

"Well,  I'd  put  a  quietus  on  Red  Feather," 
Marion  said. 

"How  would  you?"  I  said. 

"By  keeping  him  too  busy  myself  for  any 
such  nonsense." 

"I  don't  think  he  wants  to  marry  any  one," 
I  said. 

"Well,  bring  him  round  to  another  way  of 
thinking." 

"I  — could  n't,"  I  said. 

"Nonsense,  any  girl  can.  No  man  wants  to 
get  married  when  you  come  right  down  to  it." 

"What  do  they  want?" 


190      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Oh!  just  to  fool  around,  and  keep  out  of 
the  toils." 

"You  don't  take  things  very  seriously,  do 
you?"  I  said. 

"Of  course,  we  do.  You  don't  have  to  take 
men  like  Carrington  seriously,  though.  If  you 
want  them,  you  get  them,  that's  all." 

"Do  you  ever  think  about  —  sex?"  I  said. 

Mertis  threw  a  sudden  queer  little  look  at 
Marion,  which  seemed  to  say  that  I  was  on 
the  verge  of  a  vulgar  subject,  so  I  hastily  re- 
trieved my  error. 

"I  mean,  what  sex  would  you  really  rather 
be?  If  you  had  your  way  —  a  man  or  a  wo- 
man?" 

"Oh!  I'd  rather  be  a  woman,"  Marion  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mertis  hesitated.  "I  think 
you  could  have  a  lot  of  fun  being  a  man.  Men 
can  do  anything  they  darn  well  please,  and 
never  have  to  suffer  from  the  consequences. 
Think  of  being  able  to  take  in  everything,  and 
have  no  blame  attached  to  it." 

"Women  get  more,"  Marion  said;  "after  all, 
it's  the  men  that  have  to  pay  the  bills." 

"Well,  I  would  n't  want  to  be  a  poor  man," 
Marion  said,  "  but  if  I  had  money  enough,  why, 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      191 

that  would  be  another  story.  Which  would 
you  rather  be,  Maisie?  What  started  you  on 
this,  anyhow?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  to  both  questions. 
"I'd  rather  be  a  man  probably.  A  man  can 
get  away  if  he 's  a  square  peg  in  a  round  hole. 
A  woman  has  to  stick." 

Suzanne,  who  is  one  of  the  prettiest  maids 
I  ever  saw,  knocked  on  the  door  at  this  junc- 
ture, and  announced  that  Mertis  was  wanted 
on  the  telephone. 

"Father  says  we'd  never  come  downstairs 
at  all  if  we  had  a  connection  up  here,"  Mertis 
pouted. 

When  she  came  back  she  had  a  long  whis- 
pered colloquy  with  her  sister.  I  think  it's 
rude  to  hold  private  conversations  like  that 
with  a  third  person  present,  and  I  know 
Marion  and  Mertis  were  brought  up  to  think 
so,  but  they  don't  care,  and  some  way  you  don't 
mind  it  in  them.  Their  ideas  of  all  human  re- 
lations are  so  simple. 

"Let's  all  go  downstairs,"  Mertis  said,  after 
all  this  was  over. 

"You  can't  take  your  work  down  there," 
I  said. 


192      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"We've  worked  enough  for  a  while." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  sew  all  the 
afternoon,"  I  said. 

"Well,  let's  go  downstairs  for  a  while  any- 
way." 

We  descended  slowly,  three  abreast,  with 
our  arms  twined  about  each  other.  At  the 
drawing-room  door  the  girls  suddenly  relaxed 
their  clasp  and  pushed  me  in  ahead  of  them. 
Then  instead  of  following  they  closed  the  door 
softly  upon  me. 

Carrington  was  standing  by  the  window, 
gazing  down  into  the  street.  He  turned  as  I 
came  in. 

"Well,"  he  said. 

"Was  that  you  on  the  telephone?"  I  asked. 

"No;  Mertis  was  sitting  in  the  hall  tele- 
phoning when  I  came  in.  When  she  told  me 
you  were  here  I  asked  her  to  send  you  down  to 
see  me  alone." 

"Well,  she  did,"  I  said. 

"Are  n't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

Of  course  my  heart  was  pounding  so  hard 
that  it  nearly  suffocated  me,  and  the  strength 
was  oozing  out  of  me  like  so  much  sawdust. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      193 

Then  he  put  his  arms  full  around  me,  and 
kissed  me,  but  not  on  the  lips,  because  I  would 
not  let  him. 

"Don't  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Enough?  "he  said. 

"I --don't  know." 

"Don't  you  realize  you've  been  torturing 
me  by  your  silence?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"How  could  you,  then?"  he  asked  re- 
proachfully. 

"I  don't  care  about  that,"  I  said. 

"About  what?" 

"About  what  you  want." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  don't  think  it's  very  impor- 
tant." 

"What  is  important,  then?" 

"Nothing,  I  guess." 

''You're  quibbling,  dear.  I've  been  honest 
with  you.  It  would  have  been  easier  not  to  be." 

"I  should  think  it  might  have  been,"  I  said. 
"Carrington,  why  do  you  think  —  why  did 
you  think  that  you  —  could  —  put  anything 
up  to  me  —  I  mean  —  like  this?  " 


194      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"In  the  first  place,  I'm  not  putting  any- 
thing up  to  you,  dear.  You're  a  free  agent. 
I  could  almost  ask  you  the  same  question,  for 
it 's  practically  I  who  met  you  halfway,  not  the 
other  way  around.  In  the  second  place,  you  've 
had  unusual  opportunities  to  observe  Me 
through  vicarious  experience." 

"You  mean  my  mother  and  father?  Be- 
cause they  are  like  that  you  think  I  might  just 
as  well  be?" 

"That's  morbid,  dear." 

"No,  it  is  n't  morbid.   That's  the  reason." 

"You're  talking  nonsense." 

"Well,  I  will,"  I  said. 

Carrington  stared. 

"You'll  —  you'll  come  to  me?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"You  understand  what  you  are  doing?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"You  see  it's  like  this,  dear,"  he  said; 
"you've  consciously  or  unconsciously  brought 
about  a  state  of  affairs  between  us  to  which 
there  is  only  one  answer,  if  we  are  ever  to  see 
one  another  again.  If  I  were  some  men  I  would 
lie  to  you  about  the  possibilities  of  our  being 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      195 

married,  and  so  on.  I  never  have  lied  to  a 
woman  yet." 

"Have  n't  you?  "I  said. 

"You  won't  marry  young,  and  yet  your  na- 
ture demands  its  fulfillment.  I  can  give  you 
of  happiness,  and  really  not  hurt  you,  I  think. 
You  're  older  at  nineteen  than  most  women  of 
twenty-five." 

"I  am  old,"  I  said. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  apartment  to- 
morrow night?" 

"If  you'll  get  me  the  address,"  I  said. 

"Oh!  I'll  meet  you  somewhere — say,  the 
Butterfly  Grill,  and  we'll  dine." 

"I  don't  want  to  have  dinner  with  you,"  I 
said;  "if  you  give  me  the  address,  I'll  come." 

"Let  me  take  you  there.   I'd  feel  better." 

"I've  met  you  everywhere  else,"  I  said; 
"why  should  n't  I  meet  you  at  your  home?" 

"Just  as  you  wish,  dear.  You're  sure  you 
want  to?  I'm  not  coercing  you  in  any  way?" 

"I  wish  you  were,"  I  said. 

"You're  a  strange  little  girl." 

"Were  n't  the  other  women  strange?" 

"What  other  women?" 

"The  women  that  you  never  lied  to?" 


196      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "life  is  worth  just  one 
thing,  the  happiness  we  can  make  it  yield  us. 
The  only  tragedy  is  never  having  lived.  It 
takes  some  courage  on  my  part  to  give  you 
life  —  straight." 

He  looked  very  earnest  and  beautiful  as  he 
spoke.  I  wished  that  I  could  believe  in  him 
again,  and  I  almost  did  for  the  moment,  only 
I  had  nothing  left  to  believe  with.  I  knew  he 
was  right.  If  this  was  life  I  ought  to  take  it,  on 
his  terms. 

"I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  to  be  —  but  a 
sport,"  I  said. 

"Did  you  and  Carrington  patch  it  up?" 
Mertis  inquired,  after  he  had  gone  away 
again. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Weren't  you  surprised  when  you  found 
out  who  it  was  in  the  drawing-room?" 

"Very  surprised." 

"Mertis  winked  at  me,"  Marion  said,  "and 
we  both  gave  you  a  push  at  the  same  moment. 
You  thought  there  was  something  suspicious 
about  our  leaving  our  labors  upstairs,  did  n't 

you?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      197 

"Now,  I  know  what  you  were  doing  it  for." 

"  Guess  what  we  are  going  to  see  to-morrow 
night?" 

"'The  Follies'?  "I  said. 

"No,  *  Hamlet.'  Isn't  it  a  scream?  Did 
you  ever  see  it?" 

"Tony  Cowles  took  me  and  Prunella  one 
night." 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  I  said;  "it  seemed  true  to  life 
to  me,  if  it  is  Shakespeare." 

"What  do  you  mean  —  true  to  life?" 

"Well,  as  if  it  might  happen  anywhere,  at 
any  time." 

"We  haven't  got  many  kings  and  queens 
and  things  in  New  York." 

"Well,  we  have  family  complications,"  I 
said. 

"What's  it  about?"  Marion  inquired;  "I've 
forgotten." 

"Well,  Hamlet  discovers  how  rotten  things 
are  in  the  State  of  Denmark,  and  — " 

"He  can't  stand  the  strain,"  Mertis  put  in, 
"so  he  goes  around  making  an  awful  fuss  about 
it,  and  throwing  down  his  lady  love,  and  doing 
a  lot  of  soliloquizing." 


198      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Yes,  but  how  does  it  come  out?" 
"Oh!  he  goes  all  to  pieces,"  I  said;  "it's  a 
tragedy." 

"I  see  where  we  put  in  a  wonderful  eve- 
ning," Marion  groaned. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

I  PUT  Squidgins  to  bed  and  had  my  dinner  as 
usual,  —  it  was  pot  roast  and  canned  lima 
beans  and  bread  pudding,  and  it  did  seem  as 
if  it  was  a  peculiarly  unpalatable  combina- 
tion for  anybody  who  might  be  leaving  home 
for  the  last  time,  —  and  then  I  began  to  make 
my  plans  for  going  away.  My  general  idea 
was  not  to  come  back,  though  I  was  n't  sure 
where  I  meant  to  go  if  I  did  n't  hold  to  my 
original  idea  of  drowning  myself.  For  once  in 
my  life  I  could  n't  seem  to  make  plans  of  any 
sort  or  description.  I  suppose  I  really  did  n't 
care  what  became  of  me. 

I  don't  know  why  I  said  that  I  would  go  to 
Carrington,  except  that  when  he  put  his  arms 
around  me  I  almost  forgot  he  had  killed  every- 
thing that  I  thought  was  beautiful  in  the  world. 
Also,  I  wanted  to  be  a  sport.  I  hate  people 
that  won't  go  through  with  a  thing  that 
they  have  started,  and  Carrington  said  I  had 
started  this. 

I  put  some  things  together  in  my  overnight 
bag,  and  then  I  decided  that  I  would  n't  take 


200      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

it.  After  all,  I  might  be  spending  the  night  in 
the  park.  I  did  n't  know.  There  might  not  be 
any  night  to  spend.  I  tried  to  think  of  the 
family  consternation  if  they  woke  up  in  the 
morning  and  did  not  find  me  there,  but  I  was  n't 
able  to  picture  it  very  vividly.  There  was  no 
need  to  be  heroical,  and  write  a  note  the  way 
they  do  in  the  movies.  What  I  was  going  to  do 
was  an  old  story  to  my  father  and  mother. 
Stella  would  n't  be  shocked  because  she  would 
have  done  the  same  thing  if  she  happened  to 
want  to.  I  felt  squeamish  when  I  thought  of 
Squidgins,  that  was  all.  I  just  felt  as  if  I  were 
putting  something  over  on  somebody  that 
had  n't  had  a  chance  to  develop  any  theory  of 
life,  and  that  might  be  hurt  by  mine.  He 
did  n't  know  what  things  were  like  any  more 
than  I  had  known. 

I  had  put  on  my  robin  redbreast  turban 
and  was  getting  into  my  coat  when  Bobby 
came  into  my  room. 

"  Can  I  go  out  with  you,  Sister?  "  he  said. 

"I'm  only  going  to  walk  a  little  way,"  I 
said;  "that  wouldn't  be  any  fun  for  you." 

"Yes,  it  would,"  he  said;  "I'll  buy  you  an 
ice-cream  soda." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      201 

"You  have  n't  any  money,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  have.  I  bet  Noodle  Paine  that  it 
would  snow  yesterday,  and  I  won." 

"How  much  did  you.  win?" 

"A  quarter,  and  I  had  five  cents." 

"Well,  I've  got  to  go  somewhere,"  I  said. 

"Out  to  meet  your  beau?" 

"I  have  n't  any  beau." 

"Yes,  you  haven't!  Carrington  Chase  is 
your  beau." 

"No." 

"Yes,  he  is.  Ellery  Howe  is  Mother's  beau." 

"Married  women  don't  have  beaux." 

"Yes,  they  do.   Mother 's  got  one." 

"Bobby,"  I  said,  "you  ought  not  to  think 
that  way  about  things;  you'll  get  mixed  up 
about  life." 

"Father's  got  a  girl,  too;  a  lady  vamp  with 
earrings  and  a  long  fur  coat." 

"He  has  n't." 

"Has,  too;  I've  seen  her." 

"Where?" 

"Walking  down  the  street  with  her  and 
kind  of  quarreling  with  her." 

"Did  n't  you  think  it  was  —  terrible?" 

"What  do  I  care?" 


202      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  care  terribly,  Bobby,"  I  said. 

"Well,  you 're  a  girl." 

"  Would  you  care  if  —  I  went  off  with  a 
man  the  way  they  do  in  the  movies?" 

"I'd  knock  his  block  off." 

"Why  don't  you  knock  Ellery's  off,  then?" 

"  Old  Ellery's  different." 

"He's  Mother's  beau." 

"Well,  he  does  n't  hurt  anything." 

"How  about  Father?" 

"His  old  vamp  does  n't  hurt." 

"I  don't  see  why  you'd  feel  any  different 
about  Car  —  about  my  — " 

"Well,  you're  a  girl,  and  my  sister." 

"Bobby,"  I  said,  "do  you  love  me-  — do 
you,  really?" 

"No,"  Bobby  said,  "nothing  like  that.  I 
would  n't  say  so  if  I  did,  would  I?" 

"Kiss  me,  Bobby,  will  you?" 

"No." 

I  had  to  start  out  with  him  in  tow,  because 
I  could  n't  shake  him,  but  finally  I  induced  him 
to  turn  around  and  let  me  go  on  alone.  I 
watched  his  little  figure  sauntering  along,  and 
thought  how  differently  things  worked  out  in 
stories.  That  talk  with  my  little  brother 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      203 

might  have  saved  me  if  I  had  been  a  heroine  in 
a  novel.  In  a  novel  I  would  have  got  that  kiss, 
too. 

The  building  Carrington  lived  in  was  quite 
old,  and  they  had  the  push-button  arrange- 
ment where  you  ring,  and  then  they  open  the 
door  from  the  apartment  itself.  I  was  going  to 
ring  the  bell  when  I  discovered  the  outside 
door  was  standing  ajar,  and  I  went  on  up. 
Carrington  lived  on  the  fifth  floor  he  had  told 
me.  It  was  a  stuffy  building,  and  at  the  turn  of 
each  staircase  was  a  niche  built  for  a  statue  or  a 
saint  to  stand  in,  but  empty  of  occupants  now. 
It  was  no  place  for  saints  anyhow.  The  carpet 
was  red  and  plushy,  and  very  full  of  dust. 
Carrington's  door  had  a  neat  little  plate  with 
his  name  engraved  on  it.  I  sat  in  the  niche  on 
his  landing  to  get  my  breath.  Then  I  rang  the 
bell.  No  one  answered,  and  I  rang  again,  and 
went  back  to  my  niche  thinking  I  would  wait 
for  him. 

As  I  sat  there  I  went  through  that  door  in 
my  imagination.  I  saw  Carrington's  old  young 
face,  with  his  upstanding  hair,  and  his  sleepy 
eyes  fixed  on  me.  I  felt  him  take  me  in  his  arms, 
and  kiss  me.  I  heard  his  voice  saying  things 


204      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

that  he  had  never  said  to  me  before.  I  saw 
him  open  the  door  of  his  own  room  — 

It  was  all  as  if  it  had  happened.  I  slipped  to 
my  feet  and  made  my  way  down  the  stairs 
again,  not  saved  —  I  was  n't  that,  because  I 
had  eaten  of  the  tree  of  good  and  evil.  What 
there  was  left  of  my  guilelessness  I  left  up  there 
enshrined  in  that  niche  like  a  devil  instead  of  a 
saint.  I  was  n't  a  good  woman  or  a  bad  woman. 
I  was  just  one  that  did  n't  have  to  take  the 
trouble  to  be  either,  that  was  all.  I  hated 
Carrington,  and  the  stuffy  look  of  his  stair 
carpet,  and  the  cracked  enamel  of  his  pinkish 
walls. 

I  telephoned  him  as  soon  as  I  could  find  a 
booth. 

"I  came,"  I  said,  "and  I  could  n't  get  in. 
I'm  not  coming  back." 

"You  came?" 

I  explained  to  him. 

"My  doorbell  does  n't  ring,"  he  said,  "but 
the  downstairs  bell  does.  I  did  n't  dream  of 
your  failing  to  ring  that.  Why,  I  was  inside 
all  the  time." 

"I  knew  you  were,"  I  said. 

"You '11  come  back?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      205 

"No,  I  won't,"  I  said;  "I  wouldn't  have 
not  come,  but  I  won't  come  back." 

"You're  a  quitter." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  "I'm  a  quitter." 

"You  don't  love  me?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  know  I  said  I  did,  but  I 
don't." 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

"If  I  were  I  would  come  back,"  I  said,  and 
then  I  hung  up  the  receiver  on  his  plead- 
ings. 

I  used  another  nickel  to  call  up  Tony 
Cowles,  but  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  his 
voice  I  hung  up  on  him,  because  I  could  n't 
think  of  one  thing  I  had  to  say  to  him. 

I  went  and  sat  in  the  park  for  a  while,  and 
then  I  rode  in  the  subway  almost  all  night. 
Along  about  six  in  the  morning  I  let  myself 
into  my  own  door  with  my  latch-key,  and 
nobody  knew  the  difference.  I  looked  hollow- 
eyed  at  breakfast,  but  so  did  Father,  and  so 
did  Stella,  on  account  of  Squidgins  having  had 
a  tummy-ache  all  night.  Mother  remarked 
that  she  had  thought  I  was  staying  all  night 
with  the  Webster  girls,  and  Father  asked  in  a 
gruff  voice  what  time  I  did  come  in,  anyway. 


206      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

I  lied  composedly,  being  now  so  sure  of  my 
moral  degeneration  that  I  did  n't  feel  even 
one  little  qualm  about  it. 

It  was  rather  a  good  thing  that  I  did  come 
home  that  morning  because  before  the  day 
was  out  things  had  happened  in  our  family 
that  put  even  my  own  emotions  in  the  shade, 
for  the  time  being.  It  seems  to  be  the  rule 
about  shocks  that  they  keep  on  coming.  In 
fiction  just  about  one  big  thing  happens  to 
the  characters  at  once,  and  the  story  deals  with 
that  and  disposes  of  it.  In  real  life  events  pile 
one  on  top  of  another  without  reason;  one 
knock-out  blow  seems  to  be  a  signal  for  all  the 
rest  to  come  on.  Sometimes  I  think  I  shall 
never  read  any  more  novels,  because  they 
don't  give  you  any  idea  of  life  at  all. 

After  breakfast,  which  was  harmonious,  — 
though  rather  pathetic,  —  I  did  the  regular 
stunts  of  practicing  a  little,  and  mending  up 
my  clothes  and  running  fresh  ribbons  in  things, 
and  helping  with  Squidgins.  I  felt  as  if  my 
whole  body  were  asleep  the  way  your  foot  is 
sometimesjjbefore  it  begins  to  pain  and  prickle. 
When  Mother  suggested  that  we  go  out  to- 
gether and  do  some  shopping  after  lunch  I 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      207 

acquiesced,  because  I  could  n't  think  of  any 
adequate  reason  for  not  going. 

We  took  a  bus  downtown,  and  then  went 
from  one  Fifth  Avenue  shop  to  another.  I 
don't  care  much  for  shopping  with  Mother,  be- 
cause she  shops  around  among  the  bargains  so 
much,  carefully  examining  price  marks  and 
quality,  but  this  time  she  was  n't  so  bad.  She 
was  almost  reckless  at  moments. 

"Please  don't  save  money  on  the  lace  I  put 
into  my  underwear,"  I  begged  her  automati- 
cally, as  we  walked  toward  Macy's.  "If  you 
don't  get  a  good  kind  it  does  n't  wash,  or  else 
I  have  to  have  complete  sets  of  things  just  for 
thin  dresses  and  parties."  I  like  to  dress  very 
daintily  all  the  time,  instead  of  having  a  lot 
of  best  sets  of  things.  I  think  it's  in  better 
taste. 

"We  have  n't  got  so  much  money  to  save," 
Mother  said  cryptically. 

"So  you're  not  saving  it  so  hard.  Well, 
that's  good  news." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not,"  Mother 
said. 

"Father  is  n't  giving  you  so  much?" 

"No." 


208      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Because  he  has  n't  got  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  if  he  had  been  mak- 
ing less  I  should  know.  You  don't  know,  do 
you,  dear?  You're  more  in  your  father's  con- 
fidence than  I  am." 

"I'm  not  really  in  his  confidence,"  I  said. 

"I'm  not,"  Mother  said;  "I  used  to  be,  but 
I'm  not  now." 

"But  you  don't  care,"  I  said. 

"You  mustn't  jump  at  conclusions  like 
that.  Of  course  I  care;  when  you  are  married 
you  will  understand  these  things  better." 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  be  married." 

"When  a  man  is  the  father  of  your  children 
—  it's  a  different  matter." 

"Well,  he  always  was,"  I  said,  "and  you  — 
would  n't  go  to  Canada  with  him.  That  was 
the  beginning." 

"The  beginning  of  what?  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

"The  beginning  of  everything." 

"I  had  no  right  to  go  off  on  a  pleasure  trip 
and  leave  my  family." 

"And  Ellery,"  I  supplemented. 

Mother  looked  scared. 

"You're  only  a  child,  and  you  know  nothing 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      209 

about  life,  and  you  have  no  right  — "  Mother 
began. 

"I  did  n't  say  I  had,"  I  said;  "only  I  can't 
help  thinking  it  would  be  better  to  come 
right  out  flat  with  things  and  admit  what  they 
are." 

Jimmie  Greer  coming  toward  us  with  his 
hand  outstretched  was  a  welcome  interrup- 
tion to  the  conversation.  He  had  grown  very 
fat,  and  was  wearing  an  overcoat  with  a  mink 
collar  that  made  him  look  like  the  Secretary 
of  State  or  something. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  to  Mother; 
"aren't  you  looking  unusually  well,  or  do  I 
dream  it?" 

"You  dream,"  I  answered  to  this  sotto 
voce,  but  nobody  heard  me. 

"I  did  n't  know  you  in  that  luxurious  coat," 
Mother  said. 

"Where's  your  luxurious  coat?"  he  asked. 
"You  know  Robert  got  me  this  at  the  same 
time  he  got  the  seal  one  for  you.  Don't  you 
wear  it  on  these  shopping  expeditions?" 

"Alas,  I  did  n't  get  mine,"  Mother  said. 

"Why,  it  was  sent  to  you.  Mine  came  with 
it." 


210      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Robert  offered  to  get  me  a  coat,  but  I 
declined  it." 

"The  more  fo  —  I  mean,  the  more  un- 
fortunate for  you.  But  I  saw  the  bill  for  it. 
Robert  enclosed  it  with  mine  by  mistake." 

"It  was  no  doubt  all  a  mistake,"  Mother 
said. 

"Robert  described  the  coat  to  me,  it  was 
such  a  wonderful  bargain.  I  would  have  bought 
it  for  any  lady  friend  I ' ve  got." 

"Perhaps  Robert  did,"  said  Mother  with  no 
inkling  of  the  truth. 

But  the  perception  of  it  in  Jimmie  Greer's 
face  was  unmistakable. 

"Nothing  like  that,"  he  said  hastily,  "of 
course  not." 

"Maybe  he  did,"  Mother  persisted. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Jimmie  Greer,  and  even 
Mother  could  see  that  he  was  kicking  himself 
mentally  for  the  break  he  had  made;  "well,  I 
must  be  running  along.  So  glad  I  caught  sight 
of  you,  and  to  see  you  looking  so  well.  My 
love  to  your  father,  Mary.  Tell  him  I  'm  sorry 
his  daughter  did  n't  get  her  complexion  from 
him.  Though  it's  evident  where  she  did  get 
it."  He  bowed  in  Mother's  direction. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      211 

"Good-afternoon,"  Mother  said  soberly. 
"Mary"  —  she  turned  to  me  suddenly  — 
"  do  you  know  whether  your  father  bought  that 
coat  for  another  woman  or  not?" 

"How  —  how  should  I?"  I  stammered. 

"Do  you  know?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  know,  now.  He  did.  That's  the 
explanation." 

"The  explanation  of  what?" 

"Where  his  money  goes." 

"He  wanted  to  spend  it  on  you,"  I  said; 
"he  does  n't  care  anything  about  this  woman." 

"So  you  know  there  is  a  woman?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I've  met  her." 

"Oh!"  Mother  said.  "Oh!  — why  didn't 
you  tell  me?" 

"I  don't  tell  things,"  I  said. 

"Did  —  did  he  buy  her  the  fur  coat?  Do 
you  know  that?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I've  seen  her  in  it." 

"Oh!"  said  Mother  again.  Then,  "I  can't 
believe  it,  Mary;  are  you  sure?" 

:<Yes,  Mother,"  I  said,  "I  am  sure.  Even 
Bobby  knows." 

"Oh!"  Mother  cried,  "my  own  children." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  lied,  and  pre- 
tended," I  said,  "but  I  would  n't  want  any 
one  to  do  that  to  me." 

"Get  me  into  a  bus  or  a  cab.  Take  me 
home,"  Mother  said. 

So  I  hailed  a  passing  taxi  and  helped  her  in. 
She  lay  back  with  her  eyes  closed  for  some 
time,  and  I  thought  she  was  going  to  swoon, 
or  something. 

"I  shall  leave  him,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  your  own  responsi- 
bility —  some?"  I  said. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about.  How  long  has  this  been  going  on  — 
do  you  know?" 

"Ever  since  Canada,  I  think,"  I  said. 

"You  haven't  much  natural  feeling,"  Mo- 
ther said  bitterly.  "You  can  talk  as  calmly 
about  your  father's  infidelity  to  me  as  you  can 
about  the  ribbons  in  your  underclothes.  What 
kind  of  a  daughter  have  I  brought  in  the  world 
to  help  my  hour  of  bitterness?" 

"I  told  you  everything  was  rotten,"  I  said. 

"I  shall  tell  your  father  to-night  what  I  am 
going  to  do." 

But  she  did  n't,  because  when  she  did  get 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

home  she  found  a  letter  that  had  been  brought 
by  messenger  when  she  was  out,  that  told  her 
everything  she  had  just  found  out  from  me,  in- 
cluding one  thing  that  even  I  had  n't  dreamed 
of,  and  that  was  that  Father  himself  was 
through,  and  did  n't  intend  to  come  back  to 
us  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 

I  DON'T  know  what  I  thought  Tony  Cowles 
could  do  about  it,  especially  since  I  felt  I 
could  tell  him  nothing  about  any  of  my  trou- 
bles, but  I  got  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  see- 
ing him  and  feeling  his  nice  warm  handclasp 
again.  My  own  hands  were  as  cold  as  if  they 
had  died.  I  don't  see  why  mental  anguish 
affects  the  extremities. 

I  telephoned  him  once  at  his  office,  but  he 
was  out,  and  then  I  did  n't  have  the  courage 
to  call  again  on  account  of  the  fatal  drawback 
of  having  nothing  to  say.  I  took  to  walking  up 
and  down  on  the  Drive  about  a  block  away 
from  his  house,  just  hoping  I  would  meet  him. 
I  did  n't  like  to  go  any  nearer,  and  yet  I  could 
n't  bear  not  to  do  something  that  might  result 
in  my  seeing  him.  Of  course,  when  I  actually 
did  catch  a  glimpse  of  him,  I  turned  and 
walked  rapidly  in  another  direction,  and  he 
did  n't  see  me  at  all.  Finally  one  day  I  was 
standing  on  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  wait- 
ing for  a  bus,  and  he  came  up  behind  me. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      215 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  he  said.  "I  had  a 
letter  from  Prunella  to-day  full  of  all  kinds  of 
messages  for  you.  I  was  wondering  if  I  was 
going  to  be  able  to  deliver  them." 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,  but  not  in  connec- 
tion with  Prunella,"  I  said.  "I  telephoned 
you  the  other  day,  but  you  were  not  in  your 
office." 

"And  then  you  did  n't  try  again?" 

"It  was  really  nothing." 

"More  shocks?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 
i"Just  life  in  general  or  particular?" 

"Quite  particular  this  time." 

"More  particular  than  before?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "the  other  time  I  kept  find- 
ing out  how  rotten  things  were  —  one  thing 
after  another.  This  time  it's  something  that's 
happened.  My  father  has  left  my  mother, 
that's  all.  I  suppose  every  one  will  know  it 
sometime,  though  I  did  n't  mean  to  say  any- 
thing to  any  one,  myself." 

"I  see,"  said  Tony  Cowles;  "here  comes  an 
inviting-looking  hansom,  have  you  got  time 
enough  to  jump  in  it  and  take  a  turn  round  the 
park?" 


216      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  want  the  doors  closed?"  the  driver 
asked.  He  was  red-nosed,  but  very  pleasant. 

"I  think  we  do,"  Tony  said;  "it's  cozier. 
Nice  fresh  horse  you  have." 

"Yes,  sir,  he  gets  the  best  of  care,  sir." 

"He  looks  it." 

I  put  my  head  back  and  closed  my  eyes  for 
a  minute,  but  the  tears  forced  them  open. 

"I  never  cry  when  I'm  alone,"  I  said. 

"My  little  sister  used  to  hold  my  hand 
whenever  she  was  in  any  kind  of  trouble." 

I  put  my  hand  close  to  his,  and  then  I 
slipped  it  all  the  way  in. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said. 

"You  could  have  my  apartment  again,  with 
a  mother  or  a  sister,  or  a  friend,  or  anybody 
that  needed  resting  up,  or  if  you  just  wanted  to 
be  there  by  yourself  we  could  arrange  that,  I 
think." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  I  said,  "I'm  quite  tired. 
But  I  don't  think  so." 

"If  there  is  anything  you  can  think  of  that 
would  make  things  easier?" 

I  curled  my  finger  round  his  thumb. 

"Can  I  talk  to  you?"  I  said,  "a  little?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      217 

He  just  smiled. 

"Well,  the  first  thing  that  happened  was 
that  I  did  n't  believe  in  things  any  more. 
There  was  some  one  I  trusted,  and  then  he — 
he  —  told  me  how  rotten  things  were.  I  mean, 
that  everything  meant  just  one  thing.  You  see, 
I  did  n't  know  before  that  things  were  n't  — 
ideal,  some  of  the  time.  Young  girls  don't  have 
much  chance  to  find  out  what  life  means.  I 
know  Schopenhauer  and  all  those  people,  even 
Emerson,  indicate  it  all  quite  plainly,  but  some- 
how you  don't  believe  it,  or  you  dress  it  up." 

"I  see,"  said  Tony  Cowles. 

"I  just  wanted  beauty.  I  thought  that 
friendship  was  closer  to  it  than  anything.  I 
did  n't  understand  that  I  was  just  acting  like 
—  well,  just  scientifically." 

"Oh!  "he  said. 

"It's  awfully  hard  to  believe  that  every- 
thing is  just  one  thing,  is  n't  it?" 

I  took  my  hand  out  of  Tony  Cowles's  hand. 

"Everything  is  just  one  thing?" 

"Well,  you  see,  there  was  somebody  that  I 
led  on  —  when  I  did  n't  understand  I  was  do- 
ing it." 

"And  so  he  told  you?" 


218      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Well,  yes;  you  see  those  things  are  just 
progressive,  and  I  did  n't  know  it.  It  was  my 
responsibility,  too." 

Tony  Cowles  turned  quite  white. 

"Oh!  are  n't  you  feeling  well?"  I  said. 

"No,  not  very."  His  jaw  was  set,  and  a 
blue  vein  throbbed  in  his  temple.  "  Oh !  I  'm  all 
right,"  he  smiled,  seeing  my  anxiety. 

"Of  course,  I  was  n't  very  much  of  a  sport," 
I  said;  "anybody  would  think  you  could  brace 
up  better.  Of  course,  all  that  happened  was 
that  I  had  a  few  perfectly  simple  things  ex- 
plained to  me.  I'm  awfully  thin-skinned,  you 
know.  Well,  that  was  the  first  shock;  no,  not 
quite  the  first,  but  it  was  the  biggest.  I  had 
lost  faith  in  my  —  my  father,  you  know,  but 
I  had  n't  begun  to  see  everything  in  that 
light  until  after  what  I've  told  you  about 
happened.  I  think  perhaps  I  am  morally 
degenerate,  I  don't  know." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Lots  of  things,"  I  said  evasively.  "I 
don't  know  that  everybody  isn't,  except  you," 
I  said;  "I  don't  think  you  are." 

"Put  back  your  hand  where  you  took  it 
from,"  said  Tony  Cowles,  scowling. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      219 

"Well,  since  then  it  has  been  just  one — " 

"Damn  shock  after  another?" 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  squeezing  his  hand 
hard.  He  knew  I  meant  for  the  damn,  too. 

"Is  there  anything  practical  to  be  done?" 

"You  mean  to  go  after  Father?" 

"I  mean  that,  or  money,  or  engaging  a 
trained  nurse,  any  of  those  little  things  that 
I'm  so  good  at." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  said.  "Mother  is  n't 
sick.  She's  just  stupefied." 

"Well,  if  there  is,  will  you  let  me  know?" 

"Yes,  I  will  this  time." 

"Well,  every  Tuesday  and  Friday  I'm  going 
to  telephone  to  you,  and  make  an  engagement 
with  you.  We  can  go  driving  or  walking  or 
teaing,  and  talk  things  over.  In  the  intervals 
if  you  have  need  of  a  friend  will  you  call  me?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"You '11  promise?" 

"I'll  promise,"  I  said. 

"About  these  shocks;  I'm  a  pretty  good 
shock  absorber,  you  know.  You  can  just  attach 
me  any  time  if  you  happen  to  feel  one  coming." 

"The  trouble  is  you  never  feel  them  coming." 

"Well,  if  you  should,  or  if  you  ever  feel 


220      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

yourself  in  the  mood  to  go  out  and  meet  one 
halfway,  come  to  me  instead." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  knew  that,"  I  said; 
"of  course,  it's  only  when  I'm  perfectly  des- 
perate. Most  of  the  time  I  want  to  run  the 
other  way." 

"I  know." 

"I  guess  you  do,"  I  said. 

"Prunella's  coming  home  in  about  ten 
days,"  he  said  presently,  not  really  changing 
the  subject,  but  only  putting  it  quietly  aside. 

"She  has  n't  got  much  of  a  home  to  come 
to,"  I  said. 

"I've  found  them  a  place  that  I  think 
they'll  like.  A  nice  sunny  apartment  looking 
down  on  the  park,  with  a  capable  French 
woman  in  charge.  It  will  be  more  like  a  home 
than  anything  Prunella  has  had  for  some  time." 

"But  she'll  still  have  her  mother  eating  her 
up,"  I  said. 

"I've  an  idea  that  may  work  out.  Mrs. 
Pemberton  has  a  sister,  who  is  devoted  to  her. 
She's  plain,  rather  a  coarser-grained  woman, 
that  always  idolized  her  beautiful  sister,  and 
yet  knew  how  to  handle  her  better  than  any 
one.  Mrs.  Pemberton  has  not  wanted  her 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      221 

with  her  since  her  marriage,  and  before  that 
there  was  a  delicate  mother  to  look  out 
for." 

"Would  Mrs.  Pemberton  want  her  now?" 

"  She  would  if  Prunella  was  not  devoting  all 
her  time  to  her.  I  have  a  sort  of  a  plan  about 
Prunella  that  is  n't  developed  enough  yet  to 
talk  about.  What  you  said  about  the  situa- 
tion started  me  thinking.  She  won't  believe 
there  is  any  escape  until  we  prove  to  her  that 
there  is  one." 

"But  how  can  we?"  I  said. 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  said  Tony  Cowles. 

He  landed  me  at  my  own  door  just  in  time 
to  meet  Ellery  going  in,  and  I  introduced  them. 
I  could  n't  help  being  sorry  for  poor  Ellery. 
He  had  deep  hollows  underneath  his  eyes,  and 
he  looked  as  if  he  had  n't  slept  for  weeks  — 
much  less  eaten.  He  had  n't  been  in  the  house 
but  once  before,  since  Father  left  it. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  without  preliminary,  after 
the  elevator  had  deposited  us  on  our  landing, 
"what  do  you  think  I  had  better  do?" 

"I  have  n't  thought  much,"  I  said. 

"Your  father  —  your  mother  —  will  she 
get  a  divorce?" 


222      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"She's  talking  about  it,"  I  said;  "whether 
she'll  do  it  or  not  is  another  story." 

"It  is,  is  n't  it?" 

"Do  you  —  love  her  yourself,  Ellery?" 

"What  else,  why  else,"  he  said  miserably, 
"would  I  have—?" 

"I  suppose  that  does  explain  your  actions. 
Does  it  explain  hers?" 

"I  — I  don't  know." 

"It  seems  to  be  Father  she's  concentrated 
on  now,"  I  said. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Ellery;  "what  would  you 
do?" 

"I'd  go  to  South  America,"  I  said. 

"And  leave  her?" 

"Or  take  her,"  I  said. 

"That  would  be  terrible  —  for  her,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  think  she  wants  to  go,"  I  said, 
"but  I'd  give  her  a  chance." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  because  she  might  come  out  of  her 
dream  then,  if  she  just  had  to  say  'yes'  or 
'no.'" 

"I  suppose  that's  true,"  said  Ellery. 

"I  would  n't  let  her  back  and  fill,"  I  said. 

"  This  is  a  strange  way  to  talk  with  a  daugh- 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      223 

ter  about  her  own  mother  —  the  woman  I  - 
I—" 

"I  know  you  do,  Ellery,"  I  said;  "I'm 
awfully  glad  you  do.  It  makes  it  better  some 
way." 

"I've  messed  up  her  whole  life." 

"She's  messed  up  her  whole  life.  You  could 
have  been  friends,"  I  said,  "if  she  would 
have." 

"I  never  meant  to  let  her  know,"  said 
Ellery. 

"She  wouldn't  stand  that,"  I  said;  "well, 
I  guess  few  women  would.  We  can't  stand 
here  talking  in  the  hall  all  night,"  I  reminded 
him,  applying  the  latch-key. 

While  Mother  and  Ellery  were  having  it 
out  in  the  living-room,  Stella  and  I  went  into 
the  matter  ourselves  at  some  length.  Her  bed- 
room looks  like  a  Greenwich  theater  stage  set, 
being  all  in  dust-color  and  orange,  with  Squid- 
gins  sleeping  in  a  cross  between  a  chicken  coop 
and  a  workbox  in  the  corner. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it,  Stella?"  I 
said;  "do  you  think  Mother  ought  to  divorce 
him?" 

"The  divorce  laws  are  archaic,"  Stella  said; 


224      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"think  of  a  State  that  has  only  one  statutory 
reason  for  setting  aside  the  marriage  con- 
tract." 

"Mother's  got  that  reason,"  I  said. 

"It's  the  principle  that  affects  me,"  said 
Stella. 

"But  how  do  you  apply  it  in  this  case? 
Here's  Mother  with  a  good  reason  for  divorc- 
ing Father.  Here's  Father  with  a  good  reason 
for  leaving  Mother.  What  good  would  looser 
or  tighter  divorce  laws  do?" 

"  There 'd  be  no  question  of  their  freedom 
then." 

"But  they  don't  want  to  be  free,"  I  said; 
"not  any  more  free  than  they  are,  that's  their 
trouble.  They  want  to  eat  their  cake  and 
have  it  too,"  I  said.  "Mother  wants  Father 
to  have  a  nice  fresh  loaf  of  it  waiting  when 
she's  through  nibbling  what  Ellery  provides." 

"What  do  you  think  Father  wants?" 

"Father  wants  —  well,  Father's  more  rea- 
sonable. He  —  wants  things  the  way  he's 
made  them  impossible  to  be,  or  he  wants  to 
quit  cold." 

"I  don't  think  that's  more  reasonable," 
Stella  said  seriously. 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      225 

"Well,  it  is  n't,  but  men  are  fundamentally 
more  reasonable  than  women." 

"I  think  I'm  more  reasonable  than  Cos- 
grove." 

"Does  Cosgrove  think  so?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Stella. 

"How  would  he  feel  if  you  had  an  Ellery 
around  all  the  time?" 

"Perfectly  calm,  I  think." 

"  How  would  you  feel  if  Cosgrove  had  a  — 
a  lady?" 

"Perfectly  calm,"  said  Stella. 

"That  isn't  human,"  I  said.  "I  suppose 
the  only  reason  you  feel  so  is  that  it  could  n't 
happen." 

"When  you  live  on  an  intellectual  basis, 
you  live  on  a  different  plane." 

"What  do  you  think  Mother  and  Father 
ought  to  do?"  I  said. 

"Whatever  they  like,"  said  Stella;  "we 
can't  arrange  their  life  for  them." 

"Well,  just  practically.  Keep  this  apartment, 
and  patch  things  up,  and  all  stay  together?" 

"I've  been  thinking  that  I  would  talk  to 
you  about  that,"  Stella  said;  "you  know  I'm 
thinking  of  leaving." 


226      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Of  leaving?" 

"  Cosgrove  needs  me  in  his  work.  It  is  n't 
convenient  for  him  to  work  here  in  the  eve- 
nings with  the  baby.  Neither  of  us  believes  in 
a  mutual  establishment,  it's  against  our  prin- 
ciples, but  temporarily  we  think  we'll  have 
to  have  one.  Nothing  else  seems  to  work  in  our 
present  circumstances." 

"So  you're  just  going  to  set  up  like  any- 
body else  —  housekeeping?"  I  said. 

"Well,  that's  what  it  amounts  to,"  Stella 
said,  "temporarily.  There  are  better  ways  of 
arranging  for  the  family  unit,  but  none  of 
these  ideals  have  been  perfected  yet." 

"I  shall  lose  Squidgins,"  I  said. 

When  I  went  to  bed  that  night,  the  events  of 
the  day  passed  in  more  or  less  rapid  review  be- 
fore me.  I  did  n't  know  what  had  happened 
between  Mother  and  Ellery;  probably  nothing, 
or  I  should  have  known.  Mother  just  let  him 
out  of  the  door,  sobbing  faintly  as  she  closed  it 
on  him,  and  ten  to  one  wondering  all  the  time 
where  Father  was.  None  of  us  had  been  able 
to  get  him  at  the  office  since  he  announced  he 
was  leaving  us,  though  both  Stella  and  I  had 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      227 

called  him  there  to  ask  about  perfectly  practi- 
cal matters  like  where  to  send  the  laundry,  or 
to  readdress  the  rapidly  accumulating  bills, 
for  which  there  seemed  to  be  no  logical  pro- 
vision made.  We  all  knew  that  Father  would 
n't  leave  us  in  the  lurch  financially,  but  we 
wanted  the  technical  arrangements  disposed  of. 
I  could  n't  help  thinking  of  Stella  and  won- 
dering if  deep  down  in  her  soul  the  idea  of 
hanging  on  to  her  own  man  was  n't  beginning 
to  percolate,  and  if  that  was  n't  why  she  was 
reconciled  to  the  idea  of  abandoning  her  prin- 
ciples. Eating  Father's  cake,  and  having 
Cosgrove's  too,  never  disturbed  her.  When 
she  was  a  working  unit  she  gave  her  money 
impartially  to  both  of  them  in  the  form  of 
board  and  general  contributions,  but  when 
Squidgins  was  coming  along  she  just  decided 
she  was  contributing  him  to  the  community 
and  that  was  enough  for  the  time  being.  But 
this  standing  for  the  perfect  freedom  and  com- 
plete homelessness  of  the  otherwise  married 
was  an  ideal  very  dear  to  her  heart.  If  Cos- 
grove  had  n't  been  doing  part  of  his  work  with 
a  cross-eyed  girl  in  a  blue-and-green  smock, 
would  she  have  been  quite  so  ready  to  set  up  a 


228      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

habitat  with  him?  Was  Stella  some  of  these 
things  that  she  never  suspected  any  one  of  be- 
ing, or  was  it  only  my  vicious  mind  running 
around  and  around  its  circle? 

The  last  thought  that  I  had  before  I  went  to 
sleep  was  this,  and  it  came  so  suddenly  that 
it  jerked  me  straight  up  in  bed  in  the  dark. 
When  Tony  Cowles  said  that  he  had  an  idea 
about  Prunella's  future,  did  he  mean  that  he 
was  thinking  of  marrying  her? 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FATHER  opened  communication  with  me  fi- 
nally. He  had  been  gone  two  weeks  and  three 
days  before  he  made  any  manifestation  at  all, 
and  Mother  was  nearly  frantic.  I  think  she 
had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  write  him  a  let- 
ter, which  is  an  unheard-of  demonstration  on 
Mother's  part  under  any  circumstances  what- 
ever. Her  procedure  is  always  to  get  me  to 
do  it. 

The  office  got  me  on  the  telephone,  and 
Father's  secretary  said  that  Mr.  Blair  would 
like  to  have  me  meet  him  at  the  Manton  Hotel 
at  twelve-thirty  that  noon.  Mother  could  n't 
bear  to  have  me  go  or  not  to  go,  and  we  had 
rather  a  dreadful  scene  about  it.  She  was  so 
worn  out  with  the  whole  situation  that  she  had 
to  take  it  out  of  somebody,  I  suppose.  She 
never  did  anything  like  it  before  —  I  '11  say 
that  for  her.  Her  idea  was  that  I  made  myself 
a  tacit  champion  of  Father's  by  paying  any 
attention  to  his  sudden  demand  for  me. 

By  dint  of  all  the  persuasiveness  I  could 


230      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

summon  I  managed  to  make  it  possible  to  get 
out  of  the  house  at  the  given  time,  without 
her  actually  forbidding  me  to  come  back.  I  sup- 
pose the  worst  of  our  quarrel  could  have  been 
avoided  if  I  could  have  been  a  little  more  sym- 
pathetic with  her  point  of  view,  but  I  could  n't 
exactly  see  what  it  was.  I  could  have,  of 
course,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  Ellery,  but  cer- 
tainly the  goose  got  her  sauce  first,  and  the 
gander  only  followed  suit.  Ganders  always  go 
a  good  deal  farther  when  they  get  started. 
She  ought  to  know  that  by  this  time,  certainly. 
Besides  I  had  as  many  rice  puddings  against 
her  as  Father  had.  She  was  suffering,  and  I 
wished  that  I  could  have  gone  to  her  and  put 
my  arms  around  her.  Perhaps  I  could  have  if  I 
had  n't  suffered  so  much  myself  so  recently, 
and  got  so  hardened  by  it. 

It  turned  out  that  Father  was  living  at  the 
Manton  House,  and  had  left  word  at  the  desk 
that  I  was  to  be  sent  up  to  his  room  at  once. 

He  was  dictating  to  his  office  stenographer 
when  I  went  in,  but  he  sent  her  away. 

"I've  had  a  touch  of  my  old  complaint,"  he 
said  as  the  door  closed  on  her;  "well,  Baby, 
are  you  going  to  kiss  your  father?" 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      231 

"I  was  n't,"  I  said,  "but  I  am." 

"I  suppose  you're  on  your  mother's  side  in 
this?" 

"I'm  not  on  anybody's  side,"  I  said. 

"You're  the  only  one  of  the  family  with  any 
sense  of  my  position.  You  had  eyes  enough 
to  see  what  was  going  on." 

"I  have  two  eyes,"  I  said. 

"My  home  was  not  only  undermined," 
Father  said  bitterly,  "it  was  comfortless." 

"You  left  us  in  it,"  I  said. 

"I  deserted  you  —  that's  the  only  unfair- 
ness I  can  see." 

"How  about  Bobby?" 

"He's  a  child." 

"He  knew  just  the  same." 

"Knew  what?" 

"About  Mrs.,  Mrs.  —  that  woman." 

"How  do  you  know  he  knew?" 

"He  said  you  had  a  girl,  a  lady  vamp  with 
earrings." 

Father  winced. 

"It  sounds  rather  raw  when  you  put  it  like 
that,"  he  said. 

"It  is  rather  raw,  is  n't  it,  Daddy?" 

"Oh!  I'm  no  saint,"  he  said. 


232      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  guess  nobody  is,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  closely. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mary?"  he  said. 

"Well,  I'm  not  much  of  a  saint,"  I  said; 
"I'm  different  from  what  I  was." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said  again. 

"Nothing  much.  I  know  what  to  expect 
from  life,  that's  all." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Carrington  fellow  — 
that  Chase?" 

"Yes,  Father,"  I  said;  "he  told  me  a  few 
things,  and  now  I  know  them." 

"  Explain  yourself,"  said  Father  roughly. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  got  disillusioned,  that's 
all,  the  way  everybody  does.  When  Mother 
would  n't  go  with  you  to  Canada,  and  all  that, 
and  I  found  out  about  the  fur  coat  being  bought 
for  Mrs.  Van  der  Water,  and  —  and  the  way 
Mother  was  going  on  with  Ellery,  I  got  dis- 
illusioned. I  just  sort  of  depended  on  Carring- 
ton. I  thought  he  was  my  best  friend  and, 
well,  you  know,  a  kind  of  God.  I  really  did  n't 
think  of  him  in  any  way  but  that,  only  I  let 
him  kiss  me,  and  I  kissed  him  sometimes,  just 
affectionately,  you  know,  and  he  just  told  me 
what  I  was  doing." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      233 

"What  were  you  doing?"  said  Father. 

"Leading  him  on.  So  he  asked  me  to  — 
measure  up,  and  I  was  going  to.  Only  when  I 
got  to  his  rooms  I  did  n't  go  in." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  Father. 

"I  did  n't  go  in,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  rang  the  bell,  and  it  —  did  n't  ring.  Then 
I  got  sort  of  sick  of  it.  It  was  n't  a  moral  im- 
pulse on  my  part.  - 1  just  got  sort  of  sick." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Mary?" 
Father  said.  "Don't  you  realize  what  you're 
saying?  Do  you  mean  that  just  at  the  first 
suggestion  of  a  man  like  that  you  were  actually 
—  going  to  him  —  like  any  — " 

"I  went,"  I  said. 

"But,  my  God!  why  —  why?" 

"  You  did,"  I  said.   "Mother  — " 

"But  you're  a  young,  innocent  girl,"  Father 
said;  "you're  not  twenty  yet.  Your  natural 
instinct  ought  to  warn  you." 

"It  didn't,"  I  said.  "I  don't  see  that  it 
makes  any  difference  how  young  you  are. 
You've  just  got  to  take  life  as  it  is." 

"This  is  your  mother's  fault,"  he  said. 

"I'm  your  daughter,  too,  Daddy,"  I  said. 


234      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  "I  knew  about 
that  young  swine,  and  your  mother  did  n't." 

"Well,  I  hate  him  now,"  I  said. 

"This  is  a  shock  to  me,  Mary.  I  counted  on 
you,  somehow." 

"I  counted  on  you,  Daddy,  "  I  said,  "not 
that  I  want  to  blame  you.  I  don't  blame  any- 
body, excepting  Mother  about  the  rice  pud- 
dings. Ellery's  a  pretty  good  sort,  you  know. 
He 's  just  weak,  like  everybody.  You  're  weak, 
Father,  and  I'm  weak." 

"Well,  we  ought  to  brace  up,  then." 

"What's  the  use?"  I  said.  "Father,  are 
you  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Van  der  Water?" 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"Do  you  want  Mother  to  divorce  you?" 

"It's  her  privilege.  That's  what  I  sent  for 
you  for.  I  want  to  know  what  your  mother 
wishes  in  the  matter." 

"I  don't  think  she  has  any,"  I  said;  "she's 
just  shocked  and  she  does  n't  know  how  she 
does  feel." 

"She  doesn't  care?"  Father  said  incredu- 
lously. 

"Well,  she's  putting  up  a  pretty  good  bluff 
at  it,"  I  said. 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      235 

Father  put  his  head  down  in  his  hands. 

"Life  is  too  much  for  me,"  he  said. 

"There's  something  rotten  in  the  State  of 
Denmark,  is  n't  there?"  I  said. 

"I  guess  there  is,"  Father  agreed;  "you 
are  not  twenty  yet,  are  you,  Mary?" 

"Not  in  years,"  I  said. 

"You  are  telling  me  everything  that  hap- 
pened, are  n't  you?" 

"Yes,  Daddy,"  I  said. 

"Mary,  I  think  I'll  go  and  talk  to  your 
mother." 

"I  think  that  would  be  the  best  thing  to 
do,"  I  said;  "there  are  a  good  many  practical 
things  to  be  settled,  anyway.  We've  got  that 
big  apartment  on  our  hands,  and  Stella  is 
going  to  leave." 

"Stella  is  going  to  leave?" 

"She's  going  to  live  with  Cosgrove." 

"The  deuce  she  is!" 

"She's  not  a  very  natural  person,  but  I 
think  she's  getting  naturaler  all  the  time." 

"She's  such  an  abnormal  creature,"  Father 
said.  "I  don't  think  your  mother  ever  quite 
understood  why  a  daughter  of  that  type  was 
—  wished  on  her." 


236      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"  It  is  hard  to  understand,"  I  said.  "  Stella's 
all  right.  She  is  nyt  very  intelligent,  that's  all." 

"She's  only  educated,"  Father  said.  "I 
suppose  that's  one  of  the  reasons  why  you've 
been  neglected  as  you  have  been.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  for  Stella.  She  knew  it  all." 

"There's  something  to  be  done  for  Bobby, 
Father,"  I  said,  and  I  told  him  all  about  my 
problem  with  Bobby,  and  how  I  had  handled  it. 

"I  suppose  a  parent  has  moral  responsibili- 
ties." 

"Didn't  you  ever  think  of  that  before?" 
I  asked. 

"  I  suppose  I  have  n't  cared  much  about 
being  a  parent.  It  is  n't  very  interesting, 
Mary,  unless  you  happen  to  like  it." 

"You  liked  Mother,  did  n't  you?" 

"I  wanted  a  home,"  Father  said;  "I've  al- 
ways wanted  a  home.  I  suppose  if  I  could 
have  got  that  fixed  the  rest  would  have  been 
simpler." 

"Mother  makes  a  place  homelike." 

"  Yes,  but  as  I  've  always  told  you,  Mary,  a 
man  likes  to  be  the  central  feature  of  a  home. 
If  he  is  n't,  things  go  wrong.  A  home  ought 
to  be  adjusted  to  the  comfort  and  convenience 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      237 

of  the  man  who  is  paying  the  bills.  Otherwise, 
he  feels  he 's  being  cheated — and  if  he 's  a  weak 
character,  he  begins  to  cheat,  in  his  turn." 

"It  doesn't  seem  fair  to  take  everything 
and  give  nothing,"  I  said. 

"A  human  partnership  has  got  to  be  like 
any  other  partnership,  basically  sound,  or  it 
does  n't  hold." 

"If  there  was  something  to  believe  in,"  I 
said,  "I  suppose  we'd  all  believe  in  it.  Do  you 
hate  to  get  up  in  the  morning,  Daddy,  and  face 
your  morning  cup  of  coffee  and  realize  there's 
another  day  to  be  got  through  —  somehow? 
I  do." 

"That's  a  wrong  way  for  you  to  look  at 
things,  Mary." 

"It's  just  logical,"  I  said.  "I'm  so  tired, 
Daddy." 

Father  put  his  arms  around  me.  Then  he  led 
me  over  to  the  gilt  couch  by  the  window,  and 
took  me  in  his  lap. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  said  gently. 

"We're  awfully  disorganized,  aren't  we, 
Daddy?"  I  said  with  my  head  on  his  shoulder. 
"It's  all  so  rotten,  and  it  might  have  been 
so  nice  —  New  York,  and  the  sunshine,  and 


238      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

people  you  love,  and  everything.  I  don't  see 
the  use  in  being  born  when  things  get  spoiled 
so  soon  for  you." 

"I'm  going  to  talk  to  your  mother,"  Father 
said. 

"If  it  had  n't  been  for  that  horrid  fur  coat. 
Oh!  dear,  why  did  you  buy  it  for  her,  Father?" 

"Because  I  was  a  damned  fool,"  Father  ex- 
plained succinctly. 

I  could  n't  report  much  of  this  conversation 
to  Mother,  and  what  I  could  report  did  n't 
assuage  her  much.  I  did  n't  want  to  commit 
myself  on  anything  that  Father  was  going  to 
say  to  her,  because  in  the  first  place  I  did  n't 
know,  and  in  the  second  I  wanted  him  to  make 
his  own  statements  without  my  having  an- 
ticipated them.  She  was  thinking  of  him  as  a 
man  who  had  committed  an  enormous  crime 
against  her,  and  he  was  thinking  of  her  as 
a  woman  who  had  n't  delivered  the  goods. 
Neither  of  them  could  possibly  fathom  the 
other's  point  of  view,  that  I  could  see. 

Tony  Cowles  came  to  see  me  the  next  after- 
noon, and  we  took  a  long  walk  in  the  park. 
There  are  some  wonderful  paths  that  I  have 
never  explored  before. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      239 

"  Would  n't  you  like  to  live  in  the  country?  " 
he  asked  me,  as  we  sniffed  the  air  for  scents 
of  coming  spring,  faintly  discernible  through 
other  more  urban  odors. 

"Yes,  and  no,"  I  said.  "I  don't  see  what 
there  would  be  to  do  in  the  country,  after  you 
had  taken  all  the  exercise  in  sight.  I  like 
people,  and  excitement,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  and  no,"  said  Tony  Cowles,  smiling. 
"You  never  have  had  much  country  life,  have 
you?" 

"Only  boarding  in  summer  places,"  I  said. 

"A  home  of  your  own  would  be  different." 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  I  said;  "the  only 
really  likable  place  in  the  country  that  I  know 
about  belongs  to  a  girl  I  went  to  school  with. 
It's  all  flowers  and  fireplaces  and  babies;  all 
the  married  daughters  live  at  home,  and  have 
a  back  yard  full  of  children." 
<••  "How  is  Squidgins?"  Tony  inquired.  I've 
told  him  a  good  deal  about  Squidgins  from  time 
to  time. 

"Oh!  Squidgins  is  all  right.  Stella  is  going 
to  move  away,  though,  and  I  shan't  have  any 
baby  to  play  with." 

"You'll  mind?" 


240      BEAUTY —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  shall  mind  awfully,"  I  said. 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  a  back  yard  full  of 
children?" 

"I  used  to  think  I  should,  but  I  feel  differ- 
ently about  it  now." 

"Differently?" 

"  I  don't  believe  in  having  children.  That  is, 
I  don't  think  it's  fair.  They  probably  would 
resent  it,  anyway." 

"Do  you  resent  living?" 

"I  hate  it,"  I  said. 

"I'm  sorry  about  that." 

"Do  you  like  it?  "I  said. 

"  I  have  a  pretty  good  time.  I  can  see,  though, 
that  things  are  pretty  mixed  up  for  you." 

"They  are  for  Prunella,  too.  Prunella  does 
n't  think  it  right  to  have  children  unless  you 
have  a  good  heredity.  I  did  n't  use  to  think 
that  mattered.  I  thought  it  was  all  right  for 
them  to  take  a  sporting  chance  —  but  now  I 
don't  think  there  is  any  sport." 

"Prunella  does  n't  hate  living." 

"Well,  Prunella  has  you,"  I  said. 

"You  have  me,  too,  have  n't  you?" 

"  Not  the  way  Prunella  has. '  Besides,  I 
did  n't  have  you  till  —  afterwards!" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      241 

"You  can  have  me  just  the  way  Prunella 
has,  if  you  want  me." 

But  I  knew  I  could  n't,  because  Prunella  has 
him  the  way  I  had  Carrington,  and  he  is  being 
kind  to  me  because  I  am  her  friend,  and  he  is 
kind.  I  don't  want  to  get  to  depend  on  him  at 
all. 

"Well,  anyway,  I  don't  want  to  kill  myself 
any  more,"  I  said;  "if  you  hadn't  taken  an 
interest  in  me  I  might  not  have  given  that  up." 

"So  you  thought  of  that?"  said  Tony 
Cowles. 

"I've  thought  of  everything,"  I  said.  "I 
can't  live  without  ideals.  The  world  is  too 
scientific  for  me,  that's  all." 

"Perhaps  it  is  n't  as  scientific  as  you  think," 
said  Tony  Cowles. 

"Well,  it's  quite  hopeless,"  I  said.  "I  don't 
want  any  more  shocks,  and  I  can't  have  any  if 
I  don't  get  to  believing  in  anything  again." 

"I'll  race  you  to  that  farthest  tree,"  said 
Tony  Cowles. 

"  That  big  one  with  the  moss  on  it?" 

"No,  the  maple  just  beyond." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  and  I  got  there  only  a 
second  later  than  he  did. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ABOUT  a  week  after  Prunella  'came  back  to 
town  Tommy  Nevers  made  a  portentous  call 
upon  me.  Although  he  came  at  half -past  seven, 
and  had  n't  been  dining  anywhere  but  at  the 
Automat,  as  he  afterwards  confessed,  he  wore 
his  Tuxedo,  with  the  conventional  black  tie 
and  patent-leather  pumps,  which  were  rather 
marred  by  a  pair  of  far  from  immaculate  tan 
spats. 

We  discussed  the  weather,  and  the  freshen- 
ing effects  of  pure  air  for  quite  a  while,  and 
then  he  switched  to  the  peace  treaty. 

"I  am  very  glad  that  I  did  n't  take  up  the 
law,"  Tommy  said.  "  I  should  feel  even  more 
of  a  participant  in  my  country's  disgrace  if  I 
were  a  legal  representative  of  it  at  this  time." 

"We  have  hemmed  and  hawed  over  it  a 
good  deal,"  I  said.  "Tony  Cowles  says  it's 
because  there  are  so  many  people  in  America 
they  have  n't  got  a  composite  mind  to  make 
up." 

"Do  you  know  that  fellow?"  Tommy  asked. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      243 

"  Why,  you  know  I  do,"  I  said.  -"I  took  you 
to  call  on  Prunella  when  he  was  there  one  eve- 
ning." 

"Do  you  think  he's  a  good  influence  on 
Prunella?" 

"Why,  yes." 

"Well,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  think  so.  He's 
always  around  there  whenever  I  go." 

"Prunella's  only  been  back  a  week," I  said. 

"Yes,  but  he's  always  around  there." 

"He's  her  oldest  friend." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  her  getting 
some  new  ones,  then?" 

"Nothing  seems  to  be,"  I  admitted. 

"  He 's  a  good  deal  too  old  to  be  an  intimate 
friend,  I  should  say." 

"He's  twenty-eight,"  I  said. 

"Well,  that's  old." 

"It's  a  nice  age,  I  think." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  that  fellow." 

"Now,  Tommy,"  I  said. 

"Well,  you  know  yourself  that  twenty- 
eight  is  too  old  for  Prunella.  She  has  her  mo- 
ther around  all  the  time,  anyway.  I  should 
think  he  would  be  a  depressing  influence." 

"He  cheers  me  up  a  good  deal." 


244      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Does  he  come  to  see  you?" 

"Yes,  quite  often." 

"Well,  maybe  he's  just  got  that  habit  of 
hanging  around  young  girls." 

"He's  a  dear,"  I  said. 

"Is  it  so  about  your  father  and  mother 
separating?"  Tommy  asked,  changing  the 
subject.  "I'm  mighty  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"Yes,  it's  so,"  I  said. 

"Are  you  explaining  the  details  to  people, 
or  are  you  not?" 

"I  are  not,"  I  said;  "besides  there  aren't 
any  details,  just  facts." 

"It's  a  very  sad  situation,"  Tommy  said, 
"when  a  man  and  woman  of  comparative 
middle  age  have  lived  together  for  twenty 
years,  and  then  cleave  their  lives  apart.  I 
heard  there  was  another  woman  —  on  your 
father's  part." 

"Well,  you  can  hear  most  anything,"  I  said. 

"You  and  Prunella  both  seem  to  have 
rather  bitter  burdens  to  bear.  I  said  to  Pru- 
nella only  the  other  night  that  I  thought  it 
was  a  strange  coincidence  that  you  should 
both  have  had  troubles  concerning  the  same 
things  —  that  is,  parents.  I  think  it's  com- 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      245 

paratively  rare  that  children  have  troubles 
about  their  parents.  It's  so  often  the  other 
way." 

"Well,  we  have  you  to  cheer  us  up,"  I  said. 

"That's  one  of  the  things  I  came  to  talk  to 
you  about;  I  want  everything  I  do  to  be  per- 
fectly fair  and  aboveboard,  and  also  I  want 
your  advice.  You  know,  I  've  always  told  you 
that  the  reason  I  liked  to  be  with  you  was  that 
you  were  such  a  good  sport,  and  understood 
just  how  one  meant  things,  and  all  that.  I 
know  you  never  suspected  me  of  any  ulterior 
motives  no  matter  how  often  I  called  upon 
you." 

"No,  I  did  n't,"  I  said. 

"Of  course,  I  think  you  are  an  awfully  at- 
tractive girl,  and  there  was  a  time  when  I 
thought  that  —  perhaps  — well,  you  know  you 
are  awfully  attractive,  and  until  I  — " 

"Met  Prunella,"  I  said,  "go  on." 

"  Well,  yes,  until  I  met  Prunella—  I  —  I—" 

"I  know  all  that,  anyway,"  I  said;  "go  on 
with  Prunella." 

"Well,  to  put  it  briefly,  I'm  awfully  sorry 
for  Prunella,  and  a  man  feels,  when  he's  as 
sorry  for  a  girl  as  I  am  for  Prunella,  that  he  'd 


246      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

like  to  do  something  for  her  —  take  care  of 
her,  you  know,  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  I  'd  like 
to  lift  Prunella  right  out  of  those  painful  sur- 
roundings into  a  life  of  her  own,  in  which  she 
could  expand.  That's  the  way  you  get  to  feel 
when  you  get  to  be  as  sorry  for  a  girl  as  I  am 
for  her." 

"I  wonder  how  Prunella  feels,"  I  said. 

"That's  one  of  the  things  I  wanted  to  ask 
your  advice  about.  How  do  you  think  she 
feels,  Maisie?  You're  such  a  keen  judge  of 
human  nature  that  I  thought  you  might 
know." 

"Well,  she  likes  you  a  lot,"  I  said. 

"I  can  do  no  more  than  put  it  to  the  test,  I 
suppose." 

"Angels  could  do  no  more,"  I  said. 

"I'm  far  from  an  angel,"  he  said,  meaning 
to  be  humorous,  "but  that  little  girl  deserves 
one  after  all  she  has  been  through." 

"You've  taken  me  a  little  by  surprise,"  I 
said;  "it's  odd  to  think  of  your  old  friends 
wanting  to  get  married.  How  did  it  ever  occur 
to  you  in  the  first  place?" 

"  I  don't  know.  You  know  what  they  say 
pity  is  akin  to.  Well,  when  I  began  to  realize 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      247 

that  little  girl's  situation  in  the  world  I  began 
to  wish  that  I  could  help  her  out  of  it  in  some 
way,  and  the  wish  grew,  until  now  I  —  I  — " 

"You're  in  love  with  her,"  I  said.  "Have 
you  ever  —  well  —  have  you  ever  tried  to  — 
well,  say  good-night  or  anything?" 

"I  don't  think  she's  that  kind  of  a  girl,"  said 
Tommy. 

"You  thought  I  was." 

"You're  different,"  Tommy  said. 

"Different?" 

"You  make  anybody  think  of  it  quicker. 
Prunella  is  more  spirituelle  than  you  are,  in  a 
way." 

"I  guess  you  are  right,  Tommy,"  I  said; 
"there's  something  wrong  about  me,  some- 
where." 

"I  don't  think  there  is.  You're  an  awfully 
attractive  girl,  you  know,  and  you  kind  of — 
someway  —  attract  people,  but  you  're  not 
like  Prunella." 

"Nobody  thinks  I  am,"  I  said. 

"Well,  Prunella  is  spirituelle." 

"I  used  to  think  I  was,  too." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Tommy.  "You  are  not 
what  I  call  spirituelle. " 


248      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I  suppose  that  means  I'm  not  nice  like 
Prunella." 

"Oh!  I  did  n't  mean  that." 

"  I  don't  mind.  I  'd  really  rather  think  there 
was  something  wrong  with  me  than  with  every- 
thing else." 

"Oh!  I  wouldn't,"  said  Tommy;  "that 
would  take  away  all  my  confidence  in  myself." 

"How  do  you  feel  when  you  are  in  love?"  I 
said. 

"Pretty  good,  only  you  are  torn  between 
hope  and  fear.  Do  you  think  that  Tony  Cowles 
is  hanging  around  for  any  special  reason?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said;  "that's  for  you  to 
find  out,  is  n't  it?" 

"I'll  find  out.  I'm  in  a  position  to  support 
a  wife  in  a  modest  way,  you  know.  I  have 
some  income  outside  of  my  position." 

"Men  don't  always  want  to  marry  girls  just 
because  the  girls  are  in  trouble  about  things. 
A  man  might  feel  quite  interested  in  a  girl's 
state  of  mind  and  yet  not  want  to  marry  her." 

"He  might,"  said  Tommy,  "but  unless 
there  was  something  wrong  with  the  girl  I 
think  his  impulse  would  be  to  lift  her  out  of 
her  misery." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      249 

"  He  might  want  to  lift  her  out  of  her  misery 
and  not  marry  her,"  I  said. 

"That's  only  morbid,"  said  Tommy;  "y°u 
get  those  ideas  from  your  sister,  and  that 
Greenwich  Village  bunch.  Don't  think  along 
those  lines,  Maisie." 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  lines  to  think  along," 
I  said;  "Stella  is  not  Greenwich  Villagey,"  I 
said,  "not  essentially." 

"I  know  she  is  n't.  She's  quite  celebrated, 
but  she  has  that  trend  of  thought.  I  don't  care 
for  that  trend  of  thought.  I  don't  believe  in 
psychoanalysis  and  Freud  and  all  those  things, 
because  of  the  morbid  tendency  they  have." 

"You've  got  to  analyze  the  motives  of 
human  life  some  way." 

"No,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  The  less  you 
analyze  things  the  better  off  you  are." 

"But  you've  got  to  know  what  life  means?" 

"No,"  said  Tommy;  "you've  just  got  to 
live  it  according  to  the  best  of  your  ability. 
Then  you'll  find  it's  all  smooth  sailing." 

"It  seems  easy  the  way  you  put  it,"  I  said; 
"  well,  maybe,  it  is  like  that.  The  State  of  Den- 
mark was  n't  any  more  mixed  up  than  Hamlet 
was,  was  it?" 


250      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

I  could  n't  sleep  all  that  night  for  thinking 
of  different  things.  It  seemed  rather  wonderful 
that  Tommy  should  want  to  marry  Prunella 
on  what  is  really  quite  a  slight  acquaintance, 
and  just  want  to  marry  her  because  she's  in  so 
much  trouble.  Carrington  and  I  were  very, 
very  intimate  friends,  and  I  gave  him  all  my 
most  sacred  and  inmost  confidence,  and  trusted 
him  more  than  I  have  ever  trusted  any  one, 
and  all  that  happened  was  that  he  did  n't 
want  to  marry  me,  and  blamed  me  for  caring 
for  him  so  much.  Then  Tony  Cowles  cares 
about  Prunella  too.  He  is  willing  to  give  up 
all  his  own  pleasure  and  comfort  to  make 
things  easier  for  her,  and  I  suppose  what  he 
means  to  do  is  to  marry  her,  and  take  her 
away  from  the  terrible  problem  of  her  mother. 
I've  thought  and  thought  about  what  else  he 
could  mean  by  his  hint  to  me  of  an  idea  that 
might  work  out  for  her  salvation,  and  I  am 
pretty  sure  he  can't  mean  anything  else. 

Of  course,  Prunella  can't  marry  both  of 
them,  but  looking  at  it  from  her  point  of  view 
it's  perfectly  wonderful  to  have  things  happen 
like  that.  They  both  cherish  her,  and  think 
about  the  way  things  could  be  arranged  to 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      251 

make  life  easier  for  her.  The  pathetic  thing 
is  that  it  takes  so  little  to  please  her.  I  love 
her  very  much,  and  she  is  the  most  intimate 
friend  I  have,  of  course,  and  I  am  not  be- 
littling her  at  all  when  I  say  that  either  one  of 
them  could  make  her  equally  happy.  I  would 
n't  dream  of  marrying  Tommy  Nevers.  I 
did  n't  even  dream  of  marrying  Carrington  — 
only  of  a  beautiful  friendship  with  him,  though 
I  suppose  I  dimly  hoped  for  more  to  come; 
but  Tony  Cowles  is  like  a  shining  knight  ouj:  of 
an  Edwin  Abbey  painting,  and  it's  a  pity  that 
Prunella  has  n't  the  intelligence  to  know  the 
difference. 

Also,  it  is  painful  to  think  of  the  complica- 
tion of  Prunella  choosing  between  them.  I 
wish  Tony  Cowles  had  n't  felt  that  he  had  to 
be  so  fatherly  about  me  and  my  affairs,  be- 
cause it 's  going  to  be  a  wrench  when  I  have  to 
give  him  up  entirely.  I  know  he'll  always  be 
just  as  kind  and  helpful  to  me,  but  a  man 
does  n't  realize  that  a  girl  can't  get  much  com- 
fort and  consolation  out  of  a  sympathy  that's 
merely  left  over  from  something  he  gives  some- 
body else.  In  other  words  —  charity. 

It  will  be  Tony,  of  course,  and  yet  it  will  be 


252      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

an  awful  experience  for  Tommy,  not  to  get 
something  that  he  wants.  It's  never  hap- 
pened to  him  so  far.  Tony  won't  mind  know- 
ing about  Tommy,  I  suppose,  and  yet  to  think 
of  Prunella  considering  Tommy  the  way  I  know 
she  will  consider  him,  quite  seriously,  without 
any  sense  of  values,  makes  my  blood  boil. 

The  effect  of  Tommy's  revelation,  though, 
of  course,  it  was  a  sacred  confidence,  sent  me 
to  see  Prunella  the  next  afternoon.  I  had  a 
feeling  that  I  should  like  to  have  a  good  look 
at  her  to  see  if  all  these  experiences  that  she 
was  the  focus  of  had  had  any  visible  effect  on 
her;  but  they  had  n't.  I  asked  her  about  Tony, 
and  she  compared  his  usefulness  to  that  of  Mr. 
Pemberton,  and  I  spoke  of  Tommy,  and  she 
said  that  he  had  introduced  her  to  a  new  kind 
of  chocolate  nougat  that  was  n't  too  neutral 
tasting,  and  yet  had  that  lovely  chewy  quality 
like  a  caramel.  Her  mother,  who  seemed  quite 
a  lot  improved,  brought  her  knitting  (which 
Prunella  says  is  a  part  of  the  prescribed  treat- 
ment at  the  sanatorium)  and  sat  with  us  until 
Tommy  arrived  promptly  at  five-thirty,  with 
his  brief-case  under  his  arm  containing  all  the 
business  papers  that  go  everywhere  with  him. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      253 

To  my  surprise  he  seemed  to  get  on  famously 
with  Mrs.  Pemberton.  I  suppose  she  treats  any 
young  man  of  the  late  Mr.  Pemberton's  age  in 
a  kind  of  reminiscent  way,  and  it 's  easy  for  them 
to  respond  to  it  because  it  seems  so  habitual. 

"Don't  go,  Maisie,"  Prunella  said,  in  a  per- 
fectly sincere  way,  that  made  me  get  my  hat 
and  coat  at  once.  She  really  did  n't  want  me 
to  go,  only  at  the  same  time  she  thought  it  was 
rather  too  bad  I  was  there. 

"I've  got  to,"  I  said,  and  Tommy  cast  me  a 
grateful  look. 

"This  is  the  hour  for  my  treatment,"  Mrs. 
Pemberton  said;  "you  should  come  earlier, 
Tommy." 

"He  can't  leave  the  office  any  earlier,  Mo- 
ther dear.  It's  nice  of  him  to  come  in  every 
day  as  soon  as  he  can  get  away." 

"I  always  like  to  be  of  service,"  Tommy 
murmured. 

As  I  stepped  into  the  street  I  met  Carring- 
ton  there  face  to  face. 

"Well?  "he  said. 

"Well,"  I  said. 

"  Could  n't  we  have  a  cup  of  tea  some- 
where?" 


254      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"I'd  rather  walk,"  I  said. 

We  turned  toward  Broadway. 

"Maisie,"  he  said,  "don't  you  think  I  was 
rather  badly  treated?" 

"No,"  I  said;  "I  think  in  a  way  I  was." 

"Do  you  blame  me?" 

* '  I  have  only  myself  to  blame — I  know  that . " 

"Not  that,"  Carrington  said;  "it's  the 
whole  artificial  civilization.  You  are  only  the 
product  of  your  generation  seeking  —  seeking 
the  solvent  of  life,  and  then  with  not  courage 
enough  to  take  it  when  you  find  it." 
.  "What  do  you  think  the  solvent  of  life  is?" 

"Beauty  —  the  beauty  that  comes  through 
the  courage  to  experience." 

"It  might  take  some  courage  not  to  expe- 
rience," I  said. 

"Do  you  mean  that?" 

"Not  for  you,"  I  said. 

"I  loved  you,  but  I  left  you  free." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  love?"  I  said. 

''  You  know  what  I  meant  —  and  what  I  do 
mean." 

"Just  one  thing,"  I  said. 

"And  yet  they  say  it  is  men  who  put  things 
bluntly." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      255 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think?"  I  said.  "I 
think  that  men  like  you  ought  to  leave  girls 
like  me  alone." 

"Well—" 

"Nice  girls  do  have  nice  men  that  want  to 
marry  them,  and  protect  them." 

"I've  never  claimed  the  contrary." 

"Even  if  I  am  not  naturally  as  nice  as  other 
girls,  I  have  nice  instincts." 

"You're  nicer  than  other  girls." 

"I'm  too  demonstrative,"  I  said. 

"Just  about  right,"  Carrington  said. 

I  shivered. 

"The  trouble  with  you  is,"  Carrington  went 
on  thoughtfully,  "that  you've  got  too  good  a 
mind  for  your  limitations.  Your  brain  is  not 
immature,  but  your  reactions  are  just  as  ar- 
chaic as  if  you  lacked  a  thinking  organ." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said  sarcastically. 

"Don't  be  nasty." 

"You  were,"  I  said;  "you  ought  to  have  let 
me  alone,"  I  continued  with  my  first  train 
of  thought,  "even  if  I  did  meet  you  halfway. 
My  halfway  was  n't  the  same  thing  as  your 
halfway." 

"How  was  I  to  know  that?" 


256      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Well,  you'd  had  experience,"  I  said,  "and 
I  had  n't." 

"You  were  after  experience." 

His  eyes  widened  and  popped.  His  short 
arms  and  little  hands  swung  out  at  his  side  as 
he  walked. 

"  You  're  just  terrible,"  I  said,  without  pre- 
meditation —  "terrible!" 

I  ran  wildly  after  a  passing  taxi  and  hailed 
it.  I  jumped  in  it,  pushing  him  off  as  I  did  so, 
and  slammed  the  door  in  his  face. 

"Go  away,  go  away!"  I  said;  "you  make  me 
sick!" 

And  although  he  gave  my  address  com- 
posedly enough  to  the  driver  my  last  glimpse 
of  him  was  standing  stock-still  on  the  side- 
walk with  a  strange,  disconcerted  look  on  his 
face,  and  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes. 
He  looked  more  like  a  trick  dog  than  any- 
thing. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MOTHER  was  nearly  dead  waiting  for  Father 
to  come  and  have  his  promised  talk  with  her, 
and  the  day  he  came  we  had  all  we  could  do 
to  keep  her  from  going  out.  Even  Stella  ar- 
gued with  her  quite  hotly.  All  she  would  say 
was  that  it  had  been  so  long  now  that  she 
did  n't  feel  able  to  go  through  with  it.  You 
could  n't  very  well  blame  her,  for  he  had  taken 
a  long  time  about  it. 

They  were  closeted  together  over  an  hour, 
and  then  they  sent  for  me.  Mother  was  sitting 
on  the  couch  looking  very  unmotherish  in  a 
silk  shirt-waist  and  skirt,  her  hair  parted  on 
the  side,  and  done  low,  and  her  little  feet  in 
low-heeled  pumps  like  a  boy's.  I'd  noticed 
without  really  taking  it  in  that  she  had 
changed  a  good  deal  since  Father  left  — 
she  'd  got  younger  and  littler  some  way  —  but 
it  was  n't  fully  borne  in  upon  me  until  I  saw 
her  sitting  there,  waiting  for  me. 

Father  was  standing  and  looking  down  at 


258      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

her.    Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  minute. 
Then  Father  said: 

"Well,  Kitten." 

And  Mother  said: 

"Sit  down,  Maisie." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  making  for  a  neutral 
seat  in  the  wing  chair.  But  Father  motioned 
me  to  a  place  beside  Mother. 

"Your  mother  is  very  tired,"  he  said. 

"Your  father  has  been  telling  me  some 
simple  truths,"  she  said;  "at  least  they  sound 
simple,  and  they  are  truths." 

"I've  nearly  killed  her,"  Father  said  re- 
morsefully. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  her?  "  I  said,  and  I 
put  my  arm  around  her. 

"I've  just  told  her  what  she  has  done  to  us, 
me,  you  —  all  of  us." 

"It's  you,  Father,"  I  said,  "that  have  done 
it  to  us." 

"I've  told  her  that,  too,"  said  Father; 
"only  it's  her  failure  more  than  mine  because 
she's  so  much  better  than  I  am." 

"I'm  not  very  much  good,"  said  Mother, 
"  but  I  have  n't  been  disloyal  to  you  Robert  — 
not  literally." 


BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR      259 

"Well,  I  have  —  to  you,"  said  Father. 
"The  question  is  now  —  what  are  we  going  to 
do  about  it?" 

"Yes,  that  is  the  question,  isn't  it?  I've 
been  asking  myself  that  question  a  good  deal 
lately.  Do  you  want  to  patch  it  up  and  go  on, 
Robert?  —  if  I  could,  that  is?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  patch  it  up,"  said 
Father  savagely,  "I  want  a  new  deal." 

"The  old  hand  did  n't  play  very  well."  It 
was  strange  to  hear  Mother  talking  in  meta- 
phors with  a  queer  little  one-sided  smile  on 
her  face.  "I  have  n't  much  to  say  in  my  own 
defense,  except  that  I  was  n't  much  interested 
in  my  life.  I  was  n't  very  close  to  you,  Robert, 
or  my  children.  I  don't  know  whose  fault 
that  was.  It  just  happens  to  be  a  fact.  So  I 
neglected  you  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  and 
played  around  with  Ellery.  He  made  me  feel 
like  a  —  beautiful  woman.  That's  all." 

"You  are,"  said  Father,  "you  are." 

"  If  you  only  would  have  said  so  to  me  some- 
times. I  did  n't  want  to  run  around  with  Jim- 
mie  Greer,  and  those  terrible  people  he  knows. 
I've  got  some  Scotch  blood  in  me,  and  I  don't 
like  to  squander  money  on  those  things." 


260      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Do  you  want  to  spend  it  for  anything?" 
Father  said. 

"I'd  like  to  save  a  certain  amount  first.  I 
always  thought  when  we  had  done  that  we  'd 
squander  it  together  on  trips,  and  things." 

"  But  you  would  n't  go  to  Canada  with  me?  " 

"It  was  too  late  then.  I  was  n't  interested." 

"What  would  have  kept  you  interested?" 
Father  asked. 

"What  does  keep  a  woman  interested?" 

"I  don't  —  know,"  said  Father  uncom- 
fortably; "you  know  you're  the  only  woman 
there  ever  could  be  for  me?" 

"Am  I?"  said  Mother;  "if  I  could  have 
known  that  before  —  I  mean,  really  have 
known  it.  Now,  of  course,  it  does  n't  mean 
anything." 

"It  means  everything,"  said  Father  quietly. 

"Mary,"  Mother  said,  turning  to  me,  "will 
you  answer  me  a  few  questions?  Your  father 
accuses  me  of  having  neglected  you.  Do  you 
think  I  have?" 

"Yes,  Mother,"  I  said. 

"When  you  began  to  go  out  with  this  Car- 
rington  Chase,  why  could  n't  you  come  and 
tell  me  about  it  —  at  least?" 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      261 

"You  would  have  stopped  it." 

"The  only  reason  that  I  didn't  interfere 
with  your  freedom,  Mary,  was  that  I  trusted 
you  utterly." 

"I  know  it,"  I  said. 

"You  were  not  worthy  of  my  trust." 

"It  was  n't  a  question  of  that,  Mother,"  I 
said.  "I  needed  somebody  to  talk  to,  so  I 
talked  to  Carrington  the  way  you  talked  to 
Ellery.  It  was  all  I  had,  and  I  was  n't  going  to 
have  it  stopped." 

"You  had  me,"  Father  said. 

"No,"  I  said. 

"Your  mother  was  the  natural  one — " 

"You  weren't  being  the  natural  one,"  I 
said;  "you  can't  tell  people  the  things  that 
are  in  your  soul  unless  they  realize  you  have  a 
soul." 

"Mary's  hit  it,"  said  Father. 

"There  is  a  difference  between  right  and 
wrong,"  Mother  insisted. 

:<Yes,  but  nobody  in  this  house  seemed  to 
know  it,"  I  said;  "I  did  n't.  I  don't  yet." 

"I've  always  said  she  was  a  terrible  child," 
said  Mother. 

"Look  at  Stella,"  Father  said  ruefully;  "it 


262      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

was  Stella  that  discouraged  us.  We  could  n't 
be  expected  to  bring  up  a  perfectly  normal 
daughter  after  that  experience." 

"Stella  is  extraordinary,"  Mother  agreed; 
"she's  such  a  queer  old  person." 

"But  she's  steadily  getting  younger,"  I  said. 

"Mary,"  Mother  said,  "have  you  told  us 
all  the  truth  about  your  relation  with  Car- 
rington  Chase?" 

"All  that  counts,"  I  said. 

"You  went  to  his  rooms,  and  you  did  n't 
stay?" 

I  cringed. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Robert,  you  are  right,  it  was  my  fault. 
Mary  is  n't  a  child  I  can  understand,  but  I  see 
where  I've  been  wrong  just  the  same." 

"You  ought  to  have  held  me  to  account,"  I 
said. 

"Mary's  hit  it  again,"  Father  said;  "you 
ought  to  have  held  me  to  account.  Some- 
body's got  to  keep  the  books." 

"I  thought  I  kept  them  only  too  well," 
Mother  said  with  her  new  crooked  smile; 
"we  haven't  reached  any  conclusion  except 
that  we've  all  decided  we  were  wrong." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      263 

"Wrong  as  hell,"  Father  said  cheerfully. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  week,  Robert,  to  de- 
cide what  I  want  to  do?" 

"As  long  as  you  decide  my  way." 

"Where  is  —  Mrs.  —  Mrs.  Van  der  Water?" 

"  Gone  to  —  Canada." 

"To  stay?" 

"With  Jimmie  Greer,"  said  Father. 

"  Call  in  Bobby,"  I  said,  after  a  pause,  "and 
talk  to  him." 

"What  does  Bobby  know?"  Mother  said. 

"Almost  everything,"  I  said. 

Bobby  looked  as  white  as  a  sheet  of  pa- 
per when  he  was  summoned.  Nobody  realizes 
what  that  child  goes  through  in  his  head  about 
all  the  family  difficulties. 

"It's  going  to  be  all  right,  Bobby,"  I  said, 
as  he  appeared. 

"It's  getting  fixed,"  Father  said. 

"Come  here,  Bobby."  Mother  smoothed 
his  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  and  he  put  his 
head  silently  down  on  her  shoulder. 

"He  needs  a  mother,  too,"  I  said,  "don't 
you,  Bobby?" 

He  jerked  his  head  twice,  without  lifting  it. 

"He's  my  baby,"  Mother  said. 


264      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  is,  if  he  '11  let  you  do  that 
to  him,"  I  said.  "Come  on,  Bobby,  let's  have 
a  few  minutes'  conversation  among  ourselves 
outside,"  I  added  as  Mother  released  him  and 
looked  helplessly  about.  I  knew  she'd  have  to 
say  something  to  Father  about  that  fur  coat 
before  they  could  part  amicably. 

"Are  they  going  to  come  together  again?" 
Bobby  asked  me  hoarsely  after  I  had  borne 
him  off  to  the  dug-out. 

"I  think  so,"  I  said. 

"What  has  become  of  the  co-respondent?" 

"Where  did  you  pick  up  such  a  word, 
Bobby?"  I  asked  him  severely. 

"That's  what  they  call  them,  is  n't  it?" 

"We  don't  have  to  call  this  one  anything," 
I  said;  "she's  gone  off  to  Canada." 

"I  thought  she  looked  kind  of  like  Theda 
Bara,  did  n't  you?" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  I  said;  "Theda  Bara  is 
fat." 

"Well,  this  one  looked  like  her  in  the  face," 
Bobby  insisted.  "I  don't  see  what  a  man 
wants  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  over  a  vamp 
for.  I  can  imagine  falling  in  love  with  a  nice 
clean  girl  like  Mary  Pickford." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      265 

"  Well,  don't  you  let  me  catch  you  falling  in 
love  with  anybody,"  I  said. 

"  Is  Mother 's  beau  going  to  South  America?  " 

"Bobby,  that  is  n't  very  respectful." 

"Well,  is  he?" 

"He  is  n't  coming  around  here  very  much, 
anyway." 

"He  was  all  right,"  Bobby  said,  "only  he 
hung  around  too  much,  I  guess." 

Mother  expressed  some  interest  in  Tony 
Cowles  after  this,  because  his  keeping  on 
my  trail  so  persistently  suggested  another  in- 
trigue to  her.  I  explained  to  her  that  she 
need  n't  bark  up  Tony  Cowles's  tree  because 
his  interest  was  in  Prunella,  and  I  was  only  an 
offshoot  of  that  interest.  It  was  a  little  bit 
humiliating  to  keep  on  explaining  that  to 
everybody,  even  myself  all  the  time,  but  I  kept 
bravely  to  it.  She  finally  decided  that  Tony 
was  a  perfectly  harmless  friend  for  me  to  have, 
and  subsided. 

Of  course,  it  was  wonderful  for  me  to  have 
anybody  like  that.  We  took  long  walks  to- 
gether and  drives  in  the  park,  and  talked  along 
the  lines  that  my  hungry  mind  demanded.  His 


266      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

point  of  view  on  everything  almost  exactly 
coincides  with  mine,  and  when  it  does  n't  all  I 
have  to  do  is  to  educate  mine  up  to  it.  He  is 
so  soothingly  impersonal  about  everything.  I 
used  to  think  that  the  personal  note  was  the 
only  one  it  was  really  interesting  to  sound,  but 
Tony  has  taught  me  how  to  run  the  whole 
scale,  as  it  were.  With  Carrington  the  only 
thing  I  liked  to  talk  about  was  how  things 
affected  me,  and  he  liked  to  go  on  analyzing 
the  motivation  of  life  —  and  me  —  with  the 
tacit  idea  in  mind  of  something  to  come  of  it 
that  I  took  at  its  face  value. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  hear  some  music  to- 
gether," Tony  suggested  one  day  when  we 
were  sitting  in  the  dug-out  with  the  window 
open  and  the  strains  of  "Trovatore"  oozing 
through  the  crack  from  a  hand-organ  down 
below;  "your  mother  would  n't  mind  an  occa- 
sional opera,  would  she?  Even  if  they  are  late." 

"I've  done  worse  things  than  operas,"  I 
said;  "once  I  stayed  out  all  night  riding  up 
and  down  the  subway." 

"That's  better  than  the  Grand  Central 
Station.  I  stayed  all  night  in  the  Grand  Central 
Station  once  when  I  could  n't  get  a  hotel." 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      267 

"This  wasn't  because  I  couldn't  get  a 
hotel,"  I  said. 

"Shocks?  "he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "the  worst  one.  The  one  I 
went  to  meet  halfway." 

"And  did  n't  quite  make?" 

"I  just  as  bad  as  made  it,"  I  said;  "it  was 
only  an  accident  that  I  came  away.  The  bell 
did  n't  ring." 

"Didn't  it?"  said  Tony  encouragingly. 

"It's  just  the  same  as  if  it  had  rung,"  I  said, 
"as  far  as  my  intentions  went.  There  isn't 
any  reason  why  you  or  anybody  should  think 
of  me  as  an  especially  nice  girl." 

"I  think  we'll  begin  with  the  'Coq  d'  Or,' " 
Tony  said  frowningly,  as  if  he  had  n't  been 
listening  to  my  dissertation  on  myself. 

"I've  heard  'Boris'  and  'Parsifal'  and 
'Faust,'"  I  said,  "and  that's  all." 

Tony  laughed. 

"Did  you  like  them  all  equally?" 

"Just  about.  The  ' Meistersingers '  is  my 
great  ambition,  though.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I've  always  dreamed  about  it." 

"We'll  hear  it  the  first  time  it's  given  in 
New  York.  Did  you  like 'Parsifal'?" 


268      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"It  was  hard  to  hear  and  hard  to  see,  but  I 
acquired  a  taste  for  it,"  I  said.  "I  went  with 
the  Webster  girls  in  their  cousin's  box,  and  it 
drove  them  wild." 

"I  should  think  it  might  have,"  Tony 
smiled. 

He  has  met  them  once,  and  he  feels  about 
them  the  way  Father  does,  only  amused  be- 
sides. They  both  made  him  button  up  their 
white  spats,  which  are  about  as  long  as  my 
best  evening  gloves. 

"I  love  all  operatic  music,"  I  said,  "but  the 
only  kind  I  really  like  is  Wagner." 

"You  remind  me  of  what  George  Mac- 
Donald  said  of  God,"  Tony  said;  "you  are 
easy  to  please  and  hard  to  satisfy." 

"Well,  I  guess  that's  about  it,"  I  said, 
"and  you're  like  that  yourself." 

"Ami?" 

"Yes,  you  are,"  I  said;  "especially  so  — 
more  than  anybody." 

"  You  satisfy  me,"  Tony  said. 

For  my  sake  I  thought  we  had  better  get 
back  to  the  subject  of  Prunella. 

"Prunella  is  n't  hard  to  satisfy,"  I  said. 

"She's  delightfully  easy  to  please.    I  took 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      269 

her  three  pounds  of  caramels  yesterday  tied 
up  with  a  bow  of  blue  ribbon,  of  this  thin 
cloudy  stuff,  you  know,  and  she  tied  it  in  the 
front  of  her  blouse  and  has  been  wearing  it  ever 
since." 

"She  likes  those  things,"  I  said;  "caramels 
and  attentions." 

"Your  young  friend  Tommy  Nevers  spends 
all  his  spare  time  with  her;  did  you  know  it?" 
Tony  asked. 

"Well,  he  told  me  that  he  did." 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything  else?" 

"He  told  me  how  much  he  liked  Prunella." 

"How  much  does  he?" 

"A  lot." 

"Do  you  think  his  attentions  are  seri- 
ous?" 

"On  his  part,  yes." 

"I  think  they  are  serious  —  on  her  part," 
said  Tony,  laughing  at  my  grammatical  con- 
struction. 

"Do  you  think  she  likes  him?"  I  said. 

"I  think  she  does." 

"Not  really?" 

"I  think  she's  falling  in  love  with  him  as 
fast  as  she  can." 


270      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Well,"  I  said. 

"I  always  regarded  young  Nevers  as  rather 
your  property." 

"I  always  regarded  Prunella  — "I  said,  and 
stopped. 

"Oh!"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"Tommy  told  me  that  he  would  like  to  lift 
her  out  of  her  misery,"  I  began  rapidly;  "he 
said  he  thought  that  when  a  man  felt  as  sorry 
for  a  girl  as  he  did  for  Prunella  that  was  what 
he  always  wanted  to  do." 

"Well,  maybe.  He's  right  about  the  fresh- 
ening effects  of  fresh  air,  is  n't  he?" 

"He's  very  sweet  about  Prunella,"  I  said; 
"differently  'so,  from  any  way  I've  ever  seen 
him  before." 

"He's  a  thoroughly  reliable  boy.  He's  af- 
flicted by  an  acute  case  of  youth,  that's  all, 
and  that  mends  itself." 

"I'm  afflicted  by  youth,  too,"  I  said. 

"It's  becoming  to  you." 

"I  think  my  mother  and  my  father  are  go- 
ing to  make  friends  again,"  I  said,  changing 
the  subject  once  more. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that." 

"I  don't  know  that  they  are  going  to  be 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      271 

happy  ever  after,"  I  said,  "but  they  won't  be 
happy  any  other  way." 

"Love  is  a  curious  business,"  said  Tony 
Cowles. 

I  could  n't  help  wondering  how  he  knew. 

The  hand-organ  switched  to  "That  dear  old 
pal  of  mine." 

"You  believe  that  you  can  smash  a  thing  to 
bits,  and  then  remould  it  nearer  to  the  heart's 
desire,  don't  you?"  I  said. 

"I  believe  there  is  a  destiny,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "'that  shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew 
them  how  we  will.'  Also,  I  believe  'that  the 
world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things'  that  it's 
our  solemn  duty  to  be  as  happy  as  the — " 

"Well-known  kings,"  I  finished  for  him. 

:< Yes,  don't  you  —  don't  you  really?" 

"I've  been  awfully  miserable,"  I  said. 

"I  know." 

"Do  you  believe  in  God?"  I  said,  after  a 
silence. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Tony  Cowles  gently. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

I  WAS  so  popular  for  a  few  days  after  this  that 
I  had  hardly  time  to  air  out  the  dug-out  be- 
tween visitations.  Prunella  came  and  stitched 
lingerie  ruffles  in  a  smiling  state  of  abstraction, 
talking  a  great  deal  about  Tommy  as  if  he 
were  a  matter  of  course,  but  not  allowing  me 
anything  but  generalizations  on  the  subject. 
The  Webster  girls  came  and  announced  Mer- 
tis's  engagement  to  Hanson  Hollowell,  whom 
I  don't  think  she  has  any  intention  of  marry- 
ing; she  is  so  afraid  it  will  get  into  the  papers. 

"When  I  come  to  think  it  all  over  I  don't 
think  anything  will  induce  me  to  leave  Mar- 
ion," she  admitted,  "but  I  want  Marion  to  get 
an  entanglement  of  her  own  for  the  time  being, 
and  then  we  can  see  how  it  works  out." 

"Hanson  is  rather  nice,  is  n't  he?"  I  said. 

"He  has  a  beastly  temper,"  Mertis  said; 
"otherwise  I  might  take  him  more  seriously." 

"You  could  n't  take  him  more  seriously  on 
the  face  of  it,"  I  said. 

"Well,  you  know  how  those  things  are.  You 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      273 

sort  of  drift  into  them,  and  then  you  have  to 
say  something  to  appease  the  poor  man.  If  it's 
no,  you  don't  get  any  more  parties  and  the 
confectionery  supply  abruptly  ceases." 

"I  will  say  he  is  n't  a  tight  wad,"  Marion 
said;  "you  know  that's  one  thing  I  always 
had  against  your  acquisition,  Maisie.  He  was 
awfully  careful  with  his  money.  He  actually 
let  me  pay  for  that  taxicab  that  time,  do  you 
remember?" 

'  You  insisted,"  I  said. 

"Well,  why  did  I  insist?  To  be  resisted,  of 
course.  I  did  n't  want  to  fork  out  my  money." 

"Neither  did  he,"  said  Marion. 

"Well,  you  let  him  slip,  didn't  you,  Mai- 
sie?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  really  did." 

"You  could  have  held  on  to  him  if  you'd 
wanted  to." 

"I  know  it,"  I  said. 

"I  hear  now  that  the  hyphen  lady's  hus- 
band is  divorcing  her,  and  she's  going  to 
marry  Carrington." 

"What  hyphen  lady?" 

"You  know,  Red  Feathers." 

"Do  you  think  it's  so?"  I  asked. 


274      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"Well,  it's  all  over  town;  but  you  never  can 
tell,  can  you,  Mertis?" 

"You  never  can,"  Mertis  answered  coolly. 

"Well,"  Marion  said,  "if  you  think  of  a 
likely  candidate  for  me,  trot  him  along,  and  I  '11 
look  him  over.  Meantime,  I  '11  do  as  much  for 
you." 

"Maisie  has  a  gentleman  friend,"  Mertis 
said  slyly,  "Anthony  Cowles.  Maisie  knows 
which  side  her  bread  is  buttered  on  now." 

"He's  awfully  good  people,"  Marion  said; 
"as  good  as  Hollowell,  but  is  n't  he  frightfully 
heavyweight?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "he  isn't.  He's  just  about 
right." 

"Hollowell  never  had  an  idea  in  his  life," 
Mertis  said;  "that's  why  I  like  him.  If  you 
took  off  the  top  of  his  head  nothing  but  feath- 
ers would  fly  out." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  that's  a  recommenda- 
tion," I  said. 

"It's  the  only  one,"  Mertis  said  seriously, 
"  if  you  get  a  man  who  thinks  he  wants  to  do 
your  thinking  for  you." 

It  might  be  necessary  in  Mertis's  case,  but 
there  was  no  good  telling  her  so. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      275 

They  had  n't  been  out  of  the  house  five 
minutes  before  Tommy  arrived,  bursting  with 
revelations.  I  steered  him  past  my  absent- 
minded  mother  who  had  done  her  politest  to 
my  butterfly  friends,  and  had  settled  down 
to  comparative  quiet  again,  writing  a  letter,  to 
Father  I  strongly  suspected,  as  she'd  had  a 
long  one  from  him. 

"Ought  I  to  stop  and  speak  to  her?" 
Tommy  asked.  "I'd  rather  not,  if  it  can  be 
avoided.  I'm  so  moved,  in  a  great  many 
ways." 

"Mercy,  no,"  I  said;  "she  has  troubles  of 
her  own." 

"May  I  smoke?  "  Tommy  said,  as  we  settled. 

He  lit  up  ostentatiously  to  show  me  how  his 
hand  was  trembling.  It  really  was,  for  that 
matter. 

"She's  going  to,"  he  said  finally. 

"Marry  you?" 

"Think  of  it,"  Tommy  said;  "she  wants  a 
week  to  think  it  over." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  demanded. 

"Well,  it's  too  sacred  a  matter  to  speak  of 
very  much,  but  this  is  what  happened.  I  went 
around  there  this  afternoon,  and  that  Cowles 


276      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

fellow  was  there,  but  he  saw  that  there  was 
something  serious  on  and  he  went  away.  I  like 
that  fellow." 

"So  do  I,"  I  said. 

"He's  been  mighty  white  to  Prunella.  She 
told  me  about  him.  Well,  he  went  away,  and 
we  sat  down  on  the  sofa  together,  and,  well, 
you  know  I  told  you  how  a  fellow  feels  about 
a  girl  that 's  in  the  state  of  trouble  Prunella  is 
in.  You  have  an  irresistible  impulse  to  soothe 
them.  I  don't  mean  that  you  think  of  them 
in  any  —  any  desecrating  way  — " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Tommy,"  I  said; 
"go  on." 

"Well,  I  took  her  hand  in  mine,  and  then  I 
told  her—" 

"What?  "I  said. 

"What  I've  told  you  about  wanting  to  lift 
her  out  of  her  misery.  She  —  she  is  willing,  it 
seems,  or  will  be  when  she  has  thought  it  over 
for  about  a  week.  You  know,  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  get  down  on  my  knees  and  kiss  the  hem 
of  that  little  girl's  garment." 

"Why  did  n't  you?"  I  inquired. 

"I  did,"  said  Tommy  reverently. 

"What  about  her  mother?"  I  said. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      277 

"We  did  n't  discuss  her;  but  she  knows  that 
I  would  do  the  right  thing  by  her  mother." 

"She  drinks,  you  know,  Tommy." 

"Well,  I  don't,"  Tommy  said;  "where  does 
she  get  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"All  those  things  will  settle  themselves," 
Tommy  said;  "the  legislature  of  my  country 
has  taken  such  a  disgraceful  turn  that  it  makes 
my  blood  boil  when  I  think  of  it.  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Pemberton  is  forced  to  the  same  shame- 
ful expedients  that  all  other  anti-prohibition- 
ists are." 

"Well,  you  aren't,  Tommy,  if  you  don't 
drink." 

"It's  the  principle  of  the  thing,"  Tommy 
said.  "Weren't  you  surprised  that  Prunella 
gave  way  so  quickly?" 

"Well,  no,"  I  said.  "Tony  Cowles  told  me 
the  other  day  that  he  thought  Nella  was  get- 
ting deeply  interested  in  you." 

"  I  like  that  fellow,"  said  Tommy.  "What  do 
I  hear  about  your  other  friend  Carrington 
Chase?  He's  named  as  co-respondent  in  a 
divorce  case." 

"I  did  n't  know  that,"  I  said. 


278      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"That  Mrs.  Jones's  husband  is  divorcing 
her  on  Carrington's  account.  How's  your 
father,  Maisie?" 

"Mother  isn't  divorcing  him,"  I  said,  "if 
that's  what  you  mean." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  that." 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  about  you  and 
Prunella,"  I  said. 

"You  look  a  little  white,"  Tommy  said;  "are 
you  tired  or  something?  Had  I  better  go?" 

"If  you  don't  mind,  Tommy,"  I  said. 

"  Oh !  I  was  going,  anyway,  in  five  minutes 
—  excuse  my  looking  at  my  watch.  I  only 
came  away  long  enough  for  Prunella  to  have  a 
consultation  with  the  doctor  about  her  mother. 
She  expects  me  back  at  half -past  five.  I  'm  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world,"  he  said,  rising. 
"I  shall  never  forget  the  help  you've  been  to 
me,  little  girl  —  never." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  I  said. 

When  the  door  closed  on  him,  it  left  me 
alone  with  quite  a  number  of  things.  The  look 
on  Mother's  face,  for  instance,  as  she  folded 
and  smoothed  out  her  letter  to  my  father,  the 
forgiveness  look,  I  suppose  it  might  be  called, 
because  that  was  what  it  was,  anyway. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      279 

Then  there  was  the  thought  of  Tommy  and 
Prunella's  happiness  and  Mertis's  fake  en- 
gagement, and  —  the  news  about  Carrington. 

I  shut  myself  into  the  telephone  booth  in 
the  hall,  and  called  Tony  Cowles's  home 
number. 

"I  want  to  see  you,"  I  said. 

"All  right,  I '11  be  there." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  come  here,"  I  said; 
"I  want  to  come  there." 

"You  get  in  a  taxicab  and  come  over  here," 
Tony  said;  "only  don't  get  out  and  come  up. 
I'll  be  looking  for  you,  and  I'll  come  down." 

"I  don't  care  about  its  being  proper,"  I 
said,  "or  not." 

"I '11  come  down." 

"All  right,"  I  said. 

"The  house  stifled  me,"  I  said;  "I  could  n't 
stay  in  it." 

"Drive  through  the  park/  Tony  told  the 
driver;  "  keep  on  driving  till  I  tell  you  to  stop." 

"Carrington  Chase  is  going  to  be  the  co- 
respondent in  a  divorce  case." 

"Is  he?"  said  Tony  Cowles  cheerfully. 

"I  never  told  you  his  name  before,"  I  said. 


280      BEAUTY  —  AND  MARY  BLAIR 

"It's  alliterative,  is  n't  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "he  was  perfectly  horrid 
really.  I  told  him  so  one  night,  standing  on  a 
street-corner.  He'd  never  understand  why  I 
thought  so.  But  you  do,  don't  you?" 

"I  do." 

"A  co-respondent  always  means  somebody 
that  is  —  that  is  n't  — " 

"Yes,  it  does,"  said  Tony  Cowles  quickly; 
"of  course,  the  case  may  not  be  proved." 

"This  case  will  be,"  I  said. 

"Does  it  matter?"  Tony  asked  gently. 

"Oh!  does  n't  it?  "I  said. 

"The  lights  are  nice  in  this  mist,  aren't 
they?" 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "my  father  and  mother 
nearly  got  dragged  into  the  divorce  courts. 
Oh!  I  can't  see  how  such  things  are  allowed 
to  happen." 

"They  do,  but  I  don't  think  we  need  to 
think  about  them  to-night.  We  can  drive 
around  for  a  while,  and  then  I'll  telephone 
your  mother  and  ask  her  if  she  is  willing  for 
you  to  go  to  dinner  with  me." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  are  so  careful  about 
me,"  I  said,  "when  I've  told  you  everything. 


BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR      281 

He  did  n't  care  what  I  did,  or  whether  Mother 
knew  it  or  not." 

"She  might  be  anxious." 

"Yes,  she  might  be,  now,"  I  agreed;  "the 
lights  are  nice  in  the  mist." 

After  a  while  I  put  my  hand  over  his,  and 
then  I  put  my  arms  around  his  neck,  but  I 
jerked  them  away  again,  and  covered  my  face 
with  them. 

"Oh!"  I  said.  "Oh!  that's  the  way  I  am. 
You  see  it  is  n't  right.  I'm  too  — " 

"Mary,"  Tony  Cowles  said,  in  a  voice  I  had 
never  heard  him  use  before,  "do  what  you 
started  to  do." 

"I  — can't,"  I  said. 

"Put  your  arms  around  my  neck,  and  kiss 
me." 

"It  is  n't  right,"  I  said;  "there's  something 
about  me  —  I'm  all  wrong,"  I  said. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"It's  either  that  or  —  that  everything  is  — 
sex,"  I  said.  "I  don't  want  to  believe  that. 
You  are  n't  like  that." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "everybody  is." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said. 

"There's  just  one  big  ideal  in  this  world 


282      BEAUTY  — AND  MARY  BLAIR 

—  and  that's  love,"  he  said,  "the  fusion  of  two 
beings  into  one.  It's  the  truth  that  underlies 
everything." 

"People  get  awfully  messed  up,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but  that  does  n't  alter  the  fact  that 
it's  love  they  are  looking  for." 

"Like  Parsifal,"  I  said. 

"Exactly." 

"But  it  seemed  to  me  so  —  disgusting  that 
I  should  be  looking  for  it,"  I  said.  "At  first  I 
did  n't  know  what  it  was  I  wanted,  and  then 
Carrington,  he  —  told  me  — " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"I  just  thought  it  was  beauty." 

"It  is,"  he  said,  "it  is.  Put  your  arms 
around  my  neck,  dear.  Kiss  me." 

"Oh!  is  that  all  right?"  I  cried. 

"Is  it?"  asked  Tony  Cowles. 

I'm  going  to  marry  him  as  soon  as  Stella 
gets  out  of  the  house  and  Father  and  Mother 
get  together  again.  I  was  willing  to  wait  until 
Prunella's  aunt  came  out  of  the  South  and  re- 
lieved her  of  the  worst  of  her  troubles,  but 
Tony  thinks  that  won't  be  necessary.  He 's  — 
he's  beautiful. 


fttoeitfibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


000  111  406    5 


